


then something broke in me and i wanted to go home

by ellcxm6



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: almost everything is in line with the show ending, also brienne and podrick are in winterfell with sansa, and sansa and jon finding their happiness too, i just want my kids happy, i support arya going to explore but still coming home, it's mostly about arya, mostly just post-canon speculation, super self-indulgent fix-it, they would never leave her alone up there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellcxm6/pseuds/ellcxm6
Summary: She has been at sea for years, but Arya Stark is finally coming home.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just writing what I think could maybe happen after the canon endings in the show. The Starks were separated but they'll find their way back to each other. :)

After four years, she has found her way home. Almost home, at least. Arya stands at the bow of her ship, her eyes trained on the distant mass of land that she knows to be King’s Landing. As the winds blow her nearer, the sun hovering low in the sky, she is finally able to see the city in all of its rebuilt glory. Glory is a strong word, she thinks, as the smell of waste reaches her nose. The city walls may have been built tall again, the Red Keep and its towers fully repaired, but a mere four years of reconstruction cannot erase what King’s Landing is, what it may always be.

They dock at the closest quay they can find. The direwolf masthead on her ship has long been worn away by harsh winds and the whip of salty waves, and her sails, once adorned with the Stark sigil, have been replaced years ago with a simple, unadorned cloth. There is nothing to mark her, or her ship and its crew, as any sort of special guest of the city, yet when her feet reach solid ground, she finds several members of the city watch waiting for her. Bran. Of course he had seen her coming.

Arya glances back briefly toward her crew, watching as they finish docking the ship securely, then approaches the city watch guards.

“Princess Stark,” the leader bows his head to her, and Arya grimaces at the title. As the sister of a King and Queen, she supposes it makes sense, but it’s somehow even worse than being called a lady. “I am Lord Commander Byrch of the City Watch. The King sent us to meet you here, and escort you back to the castle.”

“I hope you haven’t been waiting here long.” Arya smiles at the man. “My brother’s timing is uncanny, but not always as accurate as one would hope.”

Byrch gives a short but warm laugh. “Not long at all. Only one full cycle of the sun. Easy waiting for any man.” He gestures towards the horse waiting behind them. “Whenever you are ready, we have a horse for you.”

Harry, a crew member, sidles up beside her, his arms laden with several bags of her possessions. “Shall I load these onto the horse, Captain?”

Arya rolls her eyes at the formality, but nods. She asks the Commander Byrch to recommend several inns to her crew, as she has not been here since long before the reconstruction, and rides off with the City Watch.

***

By the time they reach the castle, the sun has nearly set. The ride there had been slow going, as the streets were still filled with people, but Commander Byrch had been wonderful company, cracking jokes without bothering to censor himself for his highborn companion. Arya likes that.

She is led to the guest wing, and given her own room, small but luxurious, with a freshly made bed and a large window, framed with dark velvet curtains, overlooking the bay. She is not done for the night, though. She follows Byrch down several halls, memories flooding back into her head of the weeks she had spent here as a girl. Many of the walls and windows are still the same, untouched through sheer luck by the dragonfire that had ravaged parts of the castle. But the door that she stops in front of is assuredly new, and ornately decorated in carved wood.

“The King is in session with his council,” Byrch informs her. “But he wished to see you as soon as you arrived.”

Arya thanks him for his help and throws open the door. Every face in the room turns to look at her. She recognizes Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King, Ser Davos Seaworth, whose kindly eyes are already crinkling as he smiles at her, Samwell Tarly, clad in maester’s robes, and several others who she does not know. And there, at the head of the table, her brother. Bran. King Brandon. His dark hair has grown long and thick now, and he wears an intricate, midnight blue doublet, but his eyes flash recognition, and some happiness, perhaps as much happiness as he is capable of feeling, as they meet hers.

She runs to her brother and embraces him, knowing that he may not wish her to do so, but he surprises her as he raises his arms to hug her back.

“Princess Stark!” Tyrion stands abruptly, and the rest of the council follows suit. She really does not like that title. “I understood we were expecting you. You look very well.”

Arya pulls away from her brother and looks at Tyrion, trying not to let her lingering contempt for him show on her face. She has not forgotten his role in sentencing Jon. “You as well, my lord.” Her eyes scan the rest of the council, landing on Ser Davos. For a moment, she is tempted, so sorely tempted, to ask Ser Davos about _him_ , about how _he_ was doing, how _he_ was faring in Storm’s End. But she stops herself, holding her tongue. Now is not the time. Instead, she asks the council for a moment alone with her brother. As they shuffle out of the room, promising to finish the meeting in the morn, she pulls an empty chair out from under the table and sprawls into it.

“It looks as if you have come into your role as King with ease,” she notes, propping her feet up on the table as she spoke.

Bran smiles softly. “It has not all been easy. Not even close. But I have good men on my council here.”

“So it seems. I hadn’t had news of Westeros in years, you know. Only in the past few months, as I neared, did I hear anything, and even then it was just bits and pieces. I had half expected to find this city still in ruins when I returned.” Arya grabs a cup that has been left on the table, sniffing at its contents, before taking a swig of the wine inside.

Bran tilts his head, ignoring her small joke. “We managed to rebuild. I was able to keep an eye on you during your journeys. You went far. Farther than any man.”

“Were you able to see everything?” Arya is suddenly curious, wondering about the limits of her brother’s powers, which are still a mystery to her in and of themselves.

“Not everything. There were many things I could not see. I had hoped you could fill in the gaps for me.”

Arya leans back in her chair and takes another sip of the wine. It isn’t very good, not after the drinks she has tasted during her travels, but it's something. “I would love to.”

***

They talk for over two hours, and when Arya finally leaves the room, ordering one of his Kingsguard to escort her brother back to his chambers as she does, she finds herself restless. She takes her time wandering back to her room in the guest wing, exploring the castle once more, taking in the lavish decorations, the stone-hewn walls, the never-ending spiral staircases. The windows open up to a dark night sky, dotted with thousands of stars and a glowing moon, nearing full, that reflects on the water of the Blackwater Bay. When she enters her room, the pale moonlight filters in, casting patterns on the stone floor. She does not want to sleep yet. On a whim, she grabs one of her satchels from where it rests on a large armchair, and leaves the room once more, relying on her muscle memory to lead her feet where she wishes to go.

When she enters the library, the man she had hoped to see is standing at a table with a single lamp, poring over a thick, dusty volume. She clears her throat, and Samwell Tarly jumps, nearly knocking the lamp off the table.

“My lady!” he exclaims, his hand nervously smoothing down his robes. “I mean, my princess? Oh, that's not right. H-How may I help you?”

“Just Arya, please. There are a few things I could use your help with, if you don’t mind.” Arya says. She makes a conscious effort to speak politely, knowing that her sea-hardened vocabulary may seem especially intimidating to this man.

He nods frantically. “I am at your service.”

“Firstly, I need to send a raven. Just one, with a quick message. I plan to head back home to Winterfell within the week, and I’d like to inform my sister of my coming.”

Sam grabs a slip of parchment and scribbles the message down, then looks back to her expectantly.

Arya pauses for a moment. “On the topic of Winterfell. Have you heard anything? From Jon?”

Sam sighs. “Not for a long time, my lady. He has not been with the Night’s Watch. The last that I have heard, he is believed to have journeyed beyond the Wall with the Wildlings, and nobody has been able to contact him.”

Oh. Somehow Arya is not surprised. It had seemed almost too hopeful to wish that her brother would be waiting in the North with open arms for her, whenever she may return. Even so, she feels her stomach sink as Sam’s words confirm what she had already suspected. “I was afraid of that.”

Sam smiles sadly at her. “I miss him. I-I’m sure you do too, of course! I like to believe he is doing well.”

“As do I.” Arya wants to get away from this topic, before she dwells too long on her feelings. She reaches for the satchel she carries on her left shoulder. “I did have one more thing to discuss with you. You are in close contact with the Citadel, I assume? As Grandmaester?”

Sam nods, his eyes watching her curiously as she begins to empty her bag. She pulls out several maps, placing them on the table in front of her in a stack. “I set out years ago wanting to explore where nobody else has been,” Arya begins to explain. “I had the maps of the known world with me, but I wanted to see the unknown world. I brought a cartographer with me, the best I could find, and with his help, and the help of my navigator, we began to sketch out the unknown world.”

Sam grabs one of the rolled-up maps, opening it as his eyes take in the sketched-out lands and seas hungrily. “This is incredible! Where did you-? How did you-?” He cuts himself off.

Arya laughs. “I sailed West. I wanted to see what was west of Westeros. There wasn’t much, not in terms of land. It was all sea at the beginning, miles and miles and miles of that bloody Sunset Sea. We found a several smaller islands, yes, but all uninhabited and inhospitable. They are marked on one of these maps. That one there, I think. After months, when we were running far too low on supplies, by some miracle we landed on the Eastern shore of Essos.”

Sam blinks at her, eyes wide. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense, I suppose. Our world is largely accepted to be round by the Citadel. So, this map here, this is Eastern Essos?”

She nods. “Yes. We traveled around the East of Essos for over a year, exploring its land and drawing our maps, meeting its people and learning their cultures. And then we went South, to Asshai, and then across the Jade Sea towards Ulthos. And then to Sothoryos. We didn’t get exceptionally far on those continents and there is still plenty to be explored, but we made progress. And recorded it all. On the way home, I stopped in the Summer Islands, and then some of the Free Cities. With the help of the craftsmen in Pentos, and using all of our maps, old and new, we made…this.”

Arya pulls the sphere out of her bag. It is large, nearly the size of a dinner plate, and has been painted with great care by her cartographer. It is a map, a round map, of all the known world, and all the unknown places she has explored. She had thought of it when she had found herself on the Eastern shore of Essos, although the idea had taken years to come to fruition. It is not complete, not yet, with the parts of the continents to the South still unfinished, but it is beautiful, every feature drawn in painstaking detail with vibrant colors. Sam reaches for it with gentle hands.

“This is something else.” He whispers, turning the globe slowly in his hands as he examines it.

“I’d like you to keep it,” Arya says. “Well, not you, specifically, but the Citadel and the maesters. And all my maps as well. They are as accurate as we could make them, and I think you should have them to make copies.”

Sam stutters a thank you, but Arya reaches into her bag one more time, pulling out three thick leather-bound journals. “Oh, and these as well. I’m afraid I’m no historian, but I recorded as much as I could of what I saw and learned of the people I met.”

Sam places the globe gently on the table and began to organize all of the gifts she has just given him as he babbles. “I can’t thank you enough. I will make copies here, and then have them sent to the Citadel to make copies there. We can all learn so much from this. And once we have finished, I will find a way to get all of this back to you, I promise. You truly have given us an incalculable gift.”

Arya thinks of the long hours she had spent during her years of travel, in camps and on her boat, poring over the maps, the sketches, and her journals, and feels that it might have all truly been worthwhile. “It was my pleasure, Grandmaester Tarly.”

***

After three days of rest in the capitol, Arya is ready to go home. As her crew finishes loading her ship, she stands on the deck and stares towards the southeast. The Stormlands. He is there, less than a two weeks journey away. He is at Storm’s End. If she could only – no, she cuts herself off. She can’t. She is heading home to Winterfell. Besides, she doesn’t even know if he is there at the moment. And if he is, she doesn’t know if he would even want to see her. She’s being ridiculous. It has been four years, and she should not be dwelling still.

A hand on her shoulder shakes her from her thoughts. One of her crew members stands next to her, her brows furrowed as she examines the longing look on her captain’s face. “Are you alright?”

Arya quickly rearranges her features into a neutral expression. “I’m fine. Are we ready?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, already swiftly walking towards the bow.

***

At White Harbor, Arya acquires a horse for the last leg of her journey home to Winterfell. Most of her crew decides to stay in White Harbor with her ship, and she sets off on the road alone. She hasn’t traveled by herself in years, and finds the silence heavy, yet comforting, cloaking her as she makes her way through the Northern forests, the smell of pine filling her nostrils. She is going home.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Arya hugs galore; I love these sisters :)

Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, Lady of Winterfell, cuts an impressive figure as she descends the steps into the Winterfell courtyard. Arya dismounts her horse quickly, and dusts herself off, before dashing towards her sister. Sansa’s eyebrows draw upwards in surprise, but a smile breaks across her face, shattering her intimidating demeanor, as she opens her arms to hug her younger sister.

Arya squeezes her tightly, relishing how she smells like home, before stepping back. A few feet behind Sansa stand her Queensguard, Ser Brienne of Tarth and Ser Podrick Payne, who watch the sisters reunite with fond smiles on their faces. Arya raises a hand to them in greeting, and they both nod back at her. Sansa has chosen well, she muses.

And then Sansa has taken her arm, assuming her queenly demeanor once more as she leads her across the courtyard with Ser Podrick following closely behind, carrying the few belongings that Arya has brought. They make their way towards the family tower, where once the entire Stark family had resided. It strikes Arya that Sansa is now the only Stark left in Winterfell, and she glances up at her sister’s face, searching it for signs of loneliness. If Sansa feels lonely here, she hides it well.

Sansa leads her into the same bedroom that she had slept in as a young girl. It has been refurnished, but there is somehow already a warm fire blazing in the fireplace, and a sense of comfort sweeps over Arya.

Podrick places her belonging onto the armchair that stands in the corner of the room, and then makes to leave. Arya watches as Sansa briefly places her hand on the man’s forearm, softly saying “Thank you, Pod.” The two share a small smile before he leaves the sisters alone. Arya's eyes narrow as she makes a mental note to investigate that thread later, and then Sansa turns to her once more and pulls her into another hug.

“Four years! It’s been over four years, Arya!” She pulls back, her arms on Arya’s shoulders, and gives her a long up and down look. “You look good. Very different, but you look good.”

Arya looks down at herself, trying to see how she must look to her sister. She does look different. She has grown her hair out, although at the moment, and at most moments, really, it is braided and twisted into a bun at the back of her head. She knows that her skin has tanned several shades darker, and the sun has also left her with freckles smattered across her cheeks and shoulders. When she had been traveling, she had worn almost exclusively light linen and cotton trousers and tunics, with leather boots and light leather armor if necessary. When she had landed in the North, she had begun to layer her clothes again, and had purchased a heavy fur cloak. If most of her didn’t look like Arya Stark anymore, at least she was wearing fur around her shoulders again.

She smiles at her sister. “I’m sure I do. Look different, I mean. While you, on the other hand, look exactly like yourself, yet somehow more intimidating.” It is true. Sansa’s fiery hair has grown long and silky, and is held back with simple braids. She is dressed in a warm, regal light blue gown, and looks every part the queen that she is.

Sansa is silent as they make their way to sit in front of the fire. “I’m sorry,” she says suddenly.

Arya looks at her, confused. “What are you apologizing for?”

Her sister is quiet for a moment, tugging almost abashedly at the ends of her hair like she’s a young girl again. “Jon. When I received the raven that said you were coming, I immediately sent him a message. I had hoped that he would receive it in time to come home and see you, but I’m sure now that he hasn’t.”

“Jon?” Arya’s head spins. “How are you in contact with him? Samwell Tarly said he left the Night’s Watch years ago and has been unreachable since. He said he’s past the Wall, running with the Wildlings!”

Sansa shakes her head slowly. “Not quite. He did leave the Night’s Watch, and he is beyond the wall with the Freefolk most of the time. But we have been in contact. I – there is a man, he lives in Mole’s Town, right near the wall. He handles ravens and is a loyal Northman. I don’t know how, but Jon found him, and gave him a message to send to me by raven. If I send him a raven with a message for Jon, he will ride to the Wall, to the abandoned Castle Black, and leave it near the tunnel entrance, hidden so Jon can find it. There, he can also pick up messages from Jon to send to me. It’s not very foolproof or efficient, but it’s a form of contact that I didn’t think we would ever have.”

Arya wants to cry. “I can’t believe it. You – you said that you asked him to come to Winterfell? Has he been here recently?”

Sansa’s eyes sparkle with tears, but Arya cannot say if they are from sadness or joy. “Yes, he has. Twice, since he was exiled. Brief visits, yes, but, Gods, it’s been good to see him.”

“How is he?” Arya is desperate for any information.

“He’s doing well. He has Tormund, and Ghost, and all the other Freefolk. He looks tired, but happy.” Sansa lets out a short laugh. “He’s grown his hair out long.”

Arya smiles, her eyes welling up. “Oh. I would love to see him. Surely he has to get your message soon? Surely he’ll come.”

Sansa grabs her hand. “I hope so. He would be so happy to see you.”

The two sisters sit in silence for a minute, as the fire crackles merrily in front of them. It is warm on Arya’s face, almost too warm, but not quite. She has been traveling the world for so long that she has forgotten the familiar feeling of the Northern chill.

“And you?” Sansa asks suddenly. “What have you been doing these past years? Don’t just say exploring.”

Arya smirks. “But I have been exploring." Her sister rolls her eyes at her. "I didn’t know if you would want to hear about it.”

“I do,” Sansa says, turning to face her, and tucking her knees up. “Of course I do. Bran would send ravens, telling me only that you were alive and well. He never gave me details. I’d like to hear them.” Her blue eyes are warm.

Arya smiles as she gets up quickly to go to her bags, looting through one of them until she finds what she is looking for, a thin, lavishly leathered notebook, and a small, embroidered cloth sack. "I will gladly tell you everything, but I want to give this to you first."

Sansa reaches for the notebook as Arya returns, eagerly flipping it open. Arya has compiled this journal especially for her sister throughout her travels, making note of every recipe she comes across that she thinks Sansa would like, sketching the wonderful dresses and jewelry she has seen. In the cloth bag is a small collection of foreign threads and fabrics, as well as a few small bottles of spices. These are small indulgences for her sister, she knows, nothing that will help her lead her people, but she can see Sansa's eyes filling with joy as she inspects the gifts. "Thank you so much, Arya."

Arya tries not to blush, as she sits back down. "It was nothing, really. Now what would you like to hear of?"

***

The meal they eat that night is extravagant. Sansa is loath to call it a feast, insisting that they hadn’t had the time to truly serve up a proper feast. But for Arya, finally tasting the rich foods of the North again, it is the best meal she has eaten in years. Arya eats at the high table, sitting on Sansa’s right side, while to Sansa’s left sits Brienne, then Podrick. The not-feast has gone on for hours, and the hall has finally begun to clear out towards the end of the night when Brienne excuses herself. She cites some duties as Commander of the Queensguard, warning Podrick not to drink too much as she leaves, betraying the motherly affection she still felt for her former squire. Ser Podrick blushes, as he is wont to do, and pours himself another drink. At the lower tables, a handful of Winterfell’s residents still mill around, but the hall is far emptier than it had been an hour before.

At the high table, Podrick and Arya are both nursing mugs of ale, while Sansa has begun on another cup of wine. Arya has never seen her sister drink this much before, and Sansa’s cheeks are turning a lovely shade of pink. Arya pretends that she doesn’t notice Ser Podrick, who has drunk a fair amount himself, staring fondly at Sansa’s rosy cheeks as well.

Sansa hiccups prettily and turns to Arya. “It’s nice having family here. I…” she trails off, staring into her cup. “I would like to have a family here all the time, I think,” she finishes quietly, her tone morose.

Arya pauses, trying to decide if Sansa is talking about what she thinks she is.

“Why don’t you?” Arya finally asks. “I mean, why haven’t you?” The question is incomplete, but Sansa understands.

“I have so many duties, and I do them all by myself, as Queen. I hardly have time to consider marriage. Not that I haven’t received offers!” Sansa lets out a small, insincere laugh at this, before her face falls again. “The Vale has offered forth our dear cousin Sweetrobin once more. Several of the Northern lords have served up their sons and nephews on platters to me. The Prince of Dorne has expressed interest. Somehow, none of those offers entice me.”

Arya thinks for a moment, then begins to speak slowly, unsure if she is giving the right advice. This is not her area of expertise. “You are the most powerful woman in the North. And as far as I know, the only duty you have when it comes to your marriage is to carry on our family name. Surely this leaves you the power to choose your own husband, as long as he is a man who will take on the Stark family name.”

Arya watches as Sansa smiles. “I have not had that luxury in my life so far. Perhaps I shall be the first Queen to truly marry for love.”

At this, Ser Podrick, who has been listening to the conversation from Sansa’s other side, stands up abruptly, rattling the table. He apologizes under his breath and darts from the room, as a look of confusion settles over Sansa’s face. Arya barely notices any of this. Her chest had tightened at the mention of marrying for love, and suddenly all she can see is blue eyes looking up at her. _You’re beautiful,_ he had said, _and I love you._

She shakes her head, trying to clear the thoughts. It doesn’t matter. Maybe once she had been given the chance to marry for love, but that chance is long gone now. He is surely married to another lady by now. It has been four years. He would not have, and should not have, waited for her, especially since she had never said goodbye to him. Besides, Sansa hasn’t mentioned him in her list of suitors, and if he is unmarried, he would be at the top of that list, Arya knows. There has always been something powerful in a Stark-Baratheon alliance. There’s no use in dwelling, she reminds herself firmly.

Arya glances back to the hall to see that all the guests have cleared out, save for herself and Sansa. She gently takes the cup from Sansa’s hand and places it on the table. “I think we should retire for the night.”

Her sister nods in agreement, and they walk together towards the door. In the corridor outside, Ser Podrick is waiting. He looks up when he sees them. “San – Your Grace.” Arya pretends she doesn’t notice the familiar slip of the tongue. “My apologies for leaving so suddenly. May I escort you to your chambers?”

Sansa immediately takes the arm he offers, and Arya glances at him sharply, about to say that she is perfectly capable of escorting her sister herself. She stops herself, though, when she sees the gentle way his hand curls around her sister’s forearm, the concern in his eyes as he looks down at her. He is her Queensguard, sworn to protect her, and, from what Arya can surmise, very much in love with her. She follows behind Sansa and Podrick slowly as they ascend the stairs of the family tower, trying to leave distance between them, feeling as though she is intruding upon an intimate moment. Her sister’s red head tilts upward to whisper something in her knight’s ear, and he angles his own dark head down to listen. The two laugh quietly, conspiratorially, together, and Arya slows her steps, falling even further behind.

When they reach the family chambers, Arya takes her sister from Ser Podrick, wishing him good night, and leaving him outside the door with a soft smile on his face as they enter Sansa’s room. Sansa, still tipsy, yet somehow always graceful, perches on the edge of her bed and waits for Arya to sit next to her. When they were younger, they had never gotten along, never been the type of sisters to sit and talk late into the night about their lives. But as Arya sits on her sister’s bed now, she almost wishes that they had been.

“I would like to have a family,” Sansa sighs. “I meant that. I am the Queen by myself, but I don’t have to be.”

“Sometimes I think I might want that too,” Arya says, the words slipping out before she can even think of stopping them. Is that true? Does she? Or is it the ale speaking?

Sansa lifts her legs onto her bed and shuffles around until she is lying down. “He hasn’t married.”

Arya freezes. “Who?”

“Your blacksmith. Lord Baratheon, now. He doesn’t want to marry, according to his advisors. They are frustrated, and sent a raven without his knowledge, proposing a marriage to me.”

Arya inhales sharply, her mind spinning.

“I declined, of course. It’s not an option for me. He needs a Baratheon heir, I need a Stark heir.” Sansa looks at her sister through heavily-lidded eyes. “I know it was years ago and you thought you were being clever, sneaking around with him. I knew, though.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” Arya splutters. “He – I – we were never…”

“I’m not trying to upset you, Arya. I don’t know what happened between you two. I just thought I should tell you. It seemed as if you didn’t know.”

Arya jumps up from the bed. “I don’t care. Truly. Marry him if you want to. Gods know you would be a better lady for him than I could ever be!”

Sansa hums, her eyes closed now, and Arya immediately feels a small wave of guilt. Her sister had been trying to help her, trying to be nice, and Arya had immediately snapped. How does he do this to her when he’s not even here? She leans forward and pulls the furs over Sansa’s body, before silently stealing out of her room.

***

Sansa doesn’t bring up their conversation. Arya isn’t sure if she even remembers. Whenever they speak now, though, there is always a tense undertone. Whatever had kept them from fighting when Arya had first arrived home is gone now. If it weren’t for Sansa’s numerous duties as Queen keeping them apart, they would have been at each other’s throats far more often. She has been home for two weeks now, hoping desperately every day that Jon will miraculously ride through the gates, and save her and Sansa from each other.

He doesn’t, of course. Their method of communication with him is extremely unreliable and she doubts that he even knows she is home yet.

And so Arya waits. Until Sansa comes to her bedroom door one night. “We are going to talk about this," she demands, through the thick oak door.

Arya hesitates, wondering if she should open the door or not. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it. But Sansa’s knocking is insistent, and Arya gives in, swinging her door open.

Sansa strides in, her skirts swishing softly, her hands clasped behind her back. “Do you love him?”

Arya tries not to let her shock register on her face. “I haven’t seen him in more than four years, Sansa.”

“Well, did you love him?” Sansa’s words are sharp, curt, but there is a tenderness in her eyes. She cares. She wants to help.

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. When we were traveling as children, yes. But I loved him as family.”

“You traveled together as children?” Now it is Sansa’s turn to hide shock.

“Maybe you don’t know as much about the situation as you think you do.” Arya is smug, for a moment. Sansa doesn’t say anything, though, just waits for an explanation. So Arya tells her. Tells her how they were thrown together, both of them terrified, both of their lives in danger. How she drew strength from him, took comfort in him, how he tried to protect her. How he said he wouldn’t be her family. How she was furious at him, but that was nothing compared to the rage she felt towards the men who sold him away from her. Sansa is quiet as she explains how they reunited at Winterfell, right before the horrible battle. How they spent the night together, what she thought was their last night ever, so, _dammit_ , she wanted to spend it with him. Her voice breaks as she recounts his proposal. How happy he had looked, and how she had crushed him. How she couldn’t even look at him after that, and so she had left without saying goodbye.

Sansa doesn’t say anything for a minute. She takes Arya’s hand gently. And then, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you think that he meant to trap you in the life of a lady? If he knows you, and you know him like you say you do, then surely you know he would never truly force you to be a type of lady that you don’t want to be.”

“He asked me very clearly to be the Lady of Storm’s End!” Arya protests, shaking her head. She had told him, over and over again, throughout the years, that she wasn’t a lady. “If he thought that was something I wanted, he clearly didn’t know me like I thought he did.”

Sansa’s eyes flash, and she steps closer. “Being a lady does not mean just sitting in a tower and popping out babes every nine months. I am a lady. I am the Lady of Winterfell, as well as the Queen in the North, and I have run this holdfast for years by myself. House Mormont was led by ladies for years, and those ladies fought and died on the battlefield with their men. Ser Brienne was Lady Brienne of Tarth for her whole life before she was knighted. As ladies we are able to make something of ourselves that so many women who live beneath the status of lady will never be given the chance to. And we are given the power to work to change that. What do you think he was truly asking you?”

Arya is quiet. She doesn’t know.

Sansa does. “He was asking for you. You as you were then and as you are now. And now he has been the Lord of Storm’s End for over four years, and has refused to wed any possible bride they have thrown at him. I don’t mean to presume how you feel, Arya. But I need to make sure that you are not holding yourself back from living.”

Arya thinks of Sandor, and his last words to her. She thinks of Beric. They told her to live, just as Sansa has now.

I have been living, Arya thinks stubbornly. She has been living for four years as she explored the unknown world, traveling with her crew and mapping new lands, meeting thousands of people and immersing herself within their unique cultures. And yet here she is, back home at last, and she would be feeling completely and utterly alone if it were not for Sansa. She grabs her older sister, burying her face in her shoulder and wrapping her arms around her tightly. Sansa is shocked but returns the gesture almost immediately.

After a minute, Arya steps back slowly. “I think I may need to take a small trip.”

Sansa smiles, and the grin is borderline smug.

Arya frowns at her. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Sansa’s eyes twinkle with mirth for a few moments, before she flattens her mouth and regains her composure. “I don’t know what look you are referring to. I would like to help you prepare for your journey. Any horse in the stable is yours, of course, and you may use any of Winterfell’s resources to get to wherever you could possibly be going.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” Arya smiles. “And one more thing. If Jon comes down to Winterfell while I am gone, you are not to let him leave until I am back. Send me a raven immediately, and tie him up in the kennels if you must.”

Sansa laughs. “Of course, my lady.”

***

Arya leaves within the next two days. She rides alone to White Harbor, her heart thumping with every gallop. She doesn’t know if this is a good idea. She doesn’t know if he ever wants to see her again. But she wants to see him, _Gods_ , does she want to see him.

It’s her turn to take a leap of faith.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry reunion finally :)))

She has never been to Storm’s End before, and the castle is larger than she had expected, the massive curtain wall looming over her ship like a mountain as they sail by it. There is no place to dock at the fortress itself, so they pull into port at the neighboring town outside the walls. It is late afternoon as they finally dock, and Arya leaves the ship as soon as she can, assuming that her crew will be able to figure things out for themselves. She doesn’t wish to waste any more time.

She makes her way through the village, weaving in and around crowds of people. She knows she must look a mess, as she gets several looks thrown her way. Strands of her hair have escaped from her usually tightly pulled back bun, thanks to the strong winds on the journey over. She is dressed in men’s clothes as she always is, and she is sure that her breeches and her tunic, her leather boots and jerkin, must be radiating the smell of the sea. Her dagger and her Needle are strapped to her waist as always, and she wonders if she should have left them on the ship, as her weapons seem to draw the most nervous attention from the villagers. But the thought of traveling unarmed makes her laugh to herself, that’s ridiculous, and she only picks up her pace, the castle growing closer and closer.

“Who goes there?” The guards stop her at the castle gates.

“Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she says. “Lady Arya Stark. Or Princess Arya Stark, I suppose.” She throws around her titles casually, wondering if they will be enough to convince the guards, or if she is going to have to sneak past them like she did at Winterfell. It wouldn’t be hard to do, no, but she hopes she doesn’t have to.

She can see them exchanging glasses. They recognize her name, clearly, but they don’t know what she looks like, don’t know if they should truly believe that Arya Stark is back in Westeros. The last that most people had heard of her, she supposes, had been years ago when she set off to sail West. The two guards just look at her. She doesn’t look like a lady, much less a princess.

“I’m here to see Lord Baratheon.” Lord Baratheon. She almost laughs as she says it. It feels wrong in her mouth. She’s not here to see Lord Baratheon, not really. She’s here to see Gendry.

“We haven’t been given any instructions to let you in.” The other guard elbows the one who just spoke. “M’lady.”

“They aren’t expecting me,” Arya sighs in annoyance. “But I’m getting inside this castle tonight, whether you help me or not.” She tilts her head, raising an eyebrow at the men.

They whisper to each other for a moment, and then the taller one shoves the shorter one forward. He mumbles, “I can escort you to the Lord’s court, which is currently in session. I cannot guarantee an audience with his lordship.” He glances down at the weapons at her belt. “If you could--”

“No,” Arya interrupts him. She wasn’t handing off Needle to anybody else. “I will keep them sheathed at my belt. I don’t plan on causing any harm tonight.”

The guard looks at her, pained, but eventually nods his head and turns, escorting her to the castle. Storm’s End is vast and pale gray, carved of solid stone. She is led through the courtyard, passing by the stables, the kitchens, and several knights sparring, before they enter the main tower. “The hall is just through that door, m’lady.” The guard gestures to a grand wooden double door. Arya thanks him with a nod, and then slips through the door, trying not to draw attention.

The Round Hall is fairly crowded. Arya scans the room quickly, seeing nobles and smallfolk alike. There are only a few small windows towards the back of the round room, and the rest is lit by tall iron braziers, dancing with flames. She sees the Baratheon sigil, the black stag on gold, hung around the walls, but she does not see him yet. She stays near the walls as she makes her way forward, through the scattered people. And then, there, finally, when she is halfway to the back of the hall, she can see him. Finally.

He does not see her. He is seated at the back of the hall, on a slightly raised platform, and she is small and hidden among people. She drinks in the sight of him.

His thick, dark hair has grown, pushed away from his face, although a few shorter strands still fall over his forehead. She remembers how he constantly brushed his hair out of his eyes in frustration and finds herself smiling. A short beard covers his jaw, and he is too far for her to see his eyes, but she sees them in her mind, sees their striking blue color. He seems almost too big for the seat he rests on, but his broad shoulders and strong arms rest comfortably, and, really, she notes, he looks far more at home in that seat, almost a throne, than she could have ever imagined. His clothes are dark and simple, and at a glance he seems to dress just like he did years ago, but she can see that now his garments are of high quality, made with rich leather and expensive fabrics, stamped with golden stags.

He is speaking intently with several men who surround him, and Arya stares at his face, his jaw held high and his brow slightly furrowed. He looks noble, she thinks, and her heart begins to drop. Maybe he isn’t the man that she left all those years ago, maybe he has truly changed. For what feels like the hundredth time, she worries that he will not want to see her. She considers leaving now, she can see the doorway in her peripheral vision, all she has to do is slip back through it and ride home and he will never know. She tries to steel herself, but she can feel her foot beginning to inch backwards, towards the exit. Is this really it?

But then he looks away from his conversation, rubbing a hand over his beard in exasperation, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. He looks like Gendry again, and his eyes travel over the room. She feels frozen as his gaze passes over her, only to snap back after a second, his eyes meeting hers. She watches as his brows raise in shock, and she sees his jaw clench. His gaze warms her body, and she doesn’t want to look away, but he looks away first, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Arya looks on as he ends the conversation still occurring in front of him, as he whispers an order to a guard standing nearby, as the rest of the guards begin to usher people out. He has ended the court abruptly, and she knows it is because of her, but she doesn’t know what to think of it. She doesn’t want to look at him, can’t look at him anymore, but she can feel him approaching her. So she waits.

“Hello.” The sound of his voice brings a rush of joy and familiarity rushing through her, because he may not look exactly like her Gendry anymore, but he sounds like him, yes. And when she looks up and meets his eyes, they are exactly how she remembered.

A small smirk rises to her lips. “Hello, my lord.”

A matching smile pulls across his face, and she watches, delighted, as his eyes crinkle with it, his cheeks reddening almost imperceptibly. “I’m going to be getting a lot of that now, aren’t I? I suppose I deserve it, milady.”

Arya breathes out a small laugh. “My lady,” she corrects him. “Although, as the sister of a King and Queen, I’m afraid I am actually a Princess now.”

Gendry lets out a real laugh at that, a beautifully loud and unabashed laugh, before quickly looking around the room. The hall has nearly emptied now but his eyes train on a couple of ladies who are being escorted out. Arya follows his gaze, narrowing her eyes as she sees the two pretty women, clearly of noble birth, who are looking back at her and Gendry as they exit. She doesn’t know who they are, yet a wave of jealousy begins to rise in her chest and she desperately tries to push it down. She has only been back with him for a minute and already her feelings are rolling in far too quickly for her liking.

They are alone in the large round hall now. She turns back to him, trying to look him up and down without being obvious. “You look good,” she teases. “Very lordly.”

He sighs. “You look – I mean…” Gendry trails off. He is quiet, and then in one smooth movement he steps forward, closing the gap between them as he sweeps his arms around her in a massive hug. Arya startles, but quickly throws her arms around him as well, pressing her face into his shoulder and inhaling the smell of him. His strong arms are tight around her waist, and she can feel his beard scratching the top of her head as he leans over her. She doesn’t know how long they stand like that, she’s just happy to be in his arms again, but he eventually loosens his grip and steps back, looking at her again.

“Gods, Arya, you don’t know how good it is to see you. I – well, I didn’t even know if you were alive until a few weeks ago when Ser Davos came back with the news that you had showed up in King’s Landing, looking like a proper explorer.” He runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it.

Arya presses her lips together. While she was off on unknown lands and seas she had never truly considered that the people she left behind would worry about her. Bran could see her, she had always reasoned, but she should have known that he would not pass around the status of her health and wellness to everybody. Guilt pangs in her stomach as she looks up at Gendry, and sees the hint of worry still in his eyes, the worry that must have been far stronger while she had been gone. She doesn’t want to think about that, and she changes the subject. “Ser Davos? Is he here?”

“Not at the moment. He splits his time between King’s Landing and Storm’s End, although he has been spending more and more time in King’s Landing these days. I suppose I don’t need his help as much as I used to.” He smiles ruefully.

Arya shifts her weight from her right foot to her left. “Ah, look at you. Don’t even need help anymore. You really are a proper lord now, huh?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t do much here. The Stormlands were fine before I came, you know. All the lords were working together to keep it afloat. Then I show up, no clue what I’m bloody doing, and all that changes is that now they have a Baratheon to unite their banners under. The Storm Lords keep doing what they’ve always done, the steward and the castellan keep this castle running, and all I do is talk to the people, listen to their problems, and then pass them off for somebody else to fix.”

“That’s not true,” Arya nudges his shoulder. “You also get to sit on your little throne and look pretty.”

He lets out an amused groan, the tips of his ears reddening. “Don’t call it a throne. I’m no king.”

“Thank the gods for that,” she laughs.

He’s silent for a moment. “I’m not bad at it, though, you know. The stuff that I do. As long as I stay patient, I’m quite good at listening to the people. I can make them feel heard and settle disputes. They like me, I think.”

She wants to reach out and touch him, place her hand on his arm, tell him that of course they like him, and of course he is good at being a lord, because he is first and foremost a good man, and he has always been. She doesn’t, though. “I never doubted you,” is all she says. That seems to be enough, because he sends a small smile her way, before clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders.

“I’ll send for a room to be prepared for you. That is, if you’re staying. You are staying, right? You’re welcome here as long as you want.” Gendry is slightly flustered, and he starts walking towards the exit, gesturing for her to follow, which she does.

“I don’t know how long I will be here,” Arya says slowly. “But yes, I would like to stay. Thank you.”

They turn into the corridor, still walking side by side. Arya feels his hand brush against hers lightly, but he pulls it away quickly, much to her dismay. “You’ll come to supper tonight?” he asks.

“I – yes, of course,” she agrees.

“The food here is great,” he looks at her mischievously. “Not as good as the frogs we used to eat on the road, but almost.”

The sparkle in his eye makes him look years younger, and for a moment she wishes they were. Wishes they were still bunched around a small fire in an unknown wood, huddling for warmth and sharing meager meals of spoiled food. But then her stomach growls, reminding her that she has not eaten since the morn, and she laughs. “It’ll have to do.”

***

The meal is eaten in the feast hall, which is only slightly larger than the hall at Winterfell. Arya has changed into a fresh set of clothes, rebraided and recoiled her hair. She leaves Needle in her room, but keeps her dagger strapped close to her side. When she enters, she is seated directly next to Gendry on his left. She wonders briefly why he has given her this important position, but she doesn’t ask, far too happy to be seated next to him. They are at the high table with several other lords and ladies, as well as a few members of the household staff.

At the lower tables, the rest of the castle’s residents mill around, lively but not raucous, and Arya is overwhelmed by the joyful mood that fills the great hall. For the beginning of the meal she is quiet, simply observing. She watches as Gendry walks around and interacts with several different people, easygoing and familiar with each one, remembering their names and families. They really do like him, she thinks. He is good. She is reminded of her father, how he would take turns inviting each member of his household staff to eat with the family at the raised table, how he would focus entirely on that person and learn all that he could about them. She sees Gendry paying the same attention to his staff and subjects, and her heart warms with pride.

There is a crash as a mug smashes on the ground somewhere in the hall, and she shakes herself out of her stupor, quite aware that she has been staring at Gendry for far too long. She can feel eyes boring into her, and when she turns, she meets the eyes of one of the women who she had seen leaving the Round Hall earlier. The young noble woman is very pretty, with long blonde hair and rosy cheeks, wearing a green silk dress. Arya realizes that this is likely one of the women that have been sent to try to entice Gendry into marriage, into producing an heir. She feels jealousy well up in her chest once again, and she is unable to get rid of it. She takes only a little joy in the fact that the woman is staring back at her with the same jealousy. Arya has been seated next to the Lord Baratheon, after all.

She hears a sigh on her other side, and turns to see Gendry returning to his seat next to her. His arm brushes hers as he adjusts his seating, and that little contact sends an embarrassingly warm feeling through her body.

“I finally get to see the Lord Baratheon in action,” she teases, taking just a sip of her wine. She does not want to get drunk tonight, she wants all of her senses sharp.

He grins, almost shyly. “That you did. Think I did alright?”

Arya shrugs, trying to tone down the grin that threatens to appear on her face at the way that they have been able to slip so easily back into their old banter. “Not bad. I’ve seen better, that’s all.”

He knocks her shoulder with his own. “Well, if the lovely Princess Stark has any words of advice, this lowly Lord would be grateful.”

She takes another sip of her wine. “You can’t be so nice to them. Gotta rough ‘em up a bit to get their respect.”

He nods wisely, his eyes narrowing as he confirms to himself that she is only kidding with him. “Ah, of course. So, tell me, which one of my subjects shall I start a brawl with during tonight’s supper? Who shall I use to prove my dominance?”

They both scan the room, and Arya’s eyes land on a poor man who, clearly well in his cups, had fallen asleep on the table. “I’m afraid that’s the only opponent I see in the room who you might stand a chance against.” She nods toward the man.

Gendry splutters out a laugh. “Well, since I need a guaranteed win to earn the fear of my people…” He makes as if he is truly going to go down to fight the drunk snorer, and Arya grabs his forearm, pulling him back into his chair with a snort of a laugh. Gendry’s eyes crinkle in the way that she loves as he laughs too, but they are interrupted as a chair screeches loudly on her other side. Arya turns to see the young woman she had made eye contact with storming out of the hall. She looks back at Gendry, whose smile has died, and has been replaced with an uncomfortable, apologetic look.

She wants, so desperately, to ask him who she is. She wants to know if they have spoken, if they are friendly, if there is anything at all between them. But she holds her tongue. Instead, she pokes his arm and points out a young girl who is being chased by her older brother around the leftmost table on the floor. Together, Arya and Gendry laugh as they watch the girl shriek, as her scandalized mother grabs the brother, then tries and fails to grab her daughter. Arya thinks back to the many feasts at Winterfell, where similar events had unfolded in almost the same way. Most of the time, she had been the young girl who started the trouble. She thinks back to her childhood up North, with Jon and Sansa and Bran, with Rickon and Robb and Theon and her parents. The feeling in her chest is bittersweet as she realizes that she misses her home and her family a little less, sitting here in Storm’s End with Gendry by her side.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nervous about this one but I hope you enjoy :)

“I can assure you, the Lady Stark and I are entirely capable of taking care of ourselves,” Gendry’s voice is firm, and only a little of the exasperation that Arya can read on his face is evident in his tone. She shifts on her feet next to him, eager to get going.

“My lord.” His advisor ignores him as he continues, his voice wheedling. “You are the Lord of Storm’s End, and she the sister of our beloved King. Surely you can understand why I must insist that you are accompanied by at least a small patrol of guards on your ride today.”

“Yes, I am your Lord, so I think I can make this decision! And we are both equipped with weapons that we have far too much practice handling, so I daresay that our ride into the harmless woods will be perfectly safe!” Gendry’s eyes blaze, and Arya grabs his arm and squeezes it quickly, warning him to calm down. She has a feeling that their ride may be postponed if he were to hit an advisor.

Arya steps forward slightly. “Thank you for your concern, but as Lord Baratheon says, we will not be riding far from the castle, and in the rare chance we run into trouble, I can promise you that we know how to use these.” She gestures to her Needle and dagger, and then to the sword hanging from Gendry’s waist. Then she turns on her heel, still holding Gendry’s arm, and leads them towards the stables, effectively ending the confrontation.

Gendry flexes his fist as they walk, and Arya knows he is trying to cool down. “It’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “I don’t know why they think I cannot be trusted to fend for myself.”

“Well, let’s come back alive today, and maybe we can start to build their trust,” Arya teases. He rolls his eyes, but she can feel the muscles in his arm begin to relax.

He saddles a large, midnight black destrier that he has ridden many times before, and Arya, given her pick of the Storm’s End stables, chooses a smaller, chestnut courser. As they mount their horses, she can feel the excitement coursing through her veins at the prospect of riding down the road and through the forest with Gendry. She looks back at him as he settles in his saddle. He looks at her, just as she smirks and spurs her horse forward, racing towards the exit gate and leaving him to catch up.

She dashes through the castle walls and finds herself on the road that leads up to the fortress of Storm’s End. She follows it, firmly urging her horse to pick up speed, listening to the sound of Gendry’s horse galloping just slightly behind her. The wind hits her face, slowly pulling strands of hair out of her meticulously styled bun, but she continues forward, racing down the road for several more minutes.

When the forest alongside the road grows thicker, she begins to slow her horse, allowing Gendry to catch up alongside her, and they trot only a little farther until he points to their right.

“There. If we turn into the wood, we can reach a stream in less than a mile or so.”

Arya nods, and they both turn their horses off the road, moving at a significantly slower pace as they pick their way through the undergrowth, sparse as it is. After a minute, as they ride in a comfortable silence, she steals a glance at him. The sun is filtering through the leaves overhead, and the light falls on him in a dappled pattern, bathing him in a pale golden light. With his thick hair, his strong arms, and his dark leathers, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen something so beautiful. He meets her gaze with a guarded smile, but she only shakes her head, quickly looking forward and finally spotting the rush of water ahead of them.

As they approach the stream, which is wider than she had imagined, Arya hops off her horse and leads it to the water, tying its lead to a nearby tree so it can drink its fill. Gendry follows suit.

Arya crouches by the stream and dips her hands in, splashing the cool water onto her face before climbing over to perch a large, flat rock on the edge of the stream. She feels Gendry hesitate behind her, and when she turns to look at him, his eyes are unreadable for once as he stands a several feet away from her. She’s unsure why he seems upset now, wondering if it has to do with the fact that this is the first time they have truly been alone together for a long period of time since the night she first arrived. He had been busy, doing his lordly duties, for the three days that she had been at Storm’s End so far, and they had only seen each other in passing, for short moments. She had taken to exploring the castle, and sometimes the nearby village where she had docked, talking to the residents of Storm’s End. Both the smallfolk and the household staff had had nothing but praise to lavish upon their lord, much to her amusement. But she had barely seen the much-loved lord at all, so when he had approached her the night before and suggested that they go for a ride the next morning, she had agreed far too enthusiastically.

Yet here they are now, secluded and alone together, and he still hovers far behind her, as if he needs permission to sit next to her. Arya wonders miserably if the happiness they both had felt at reuniting has already faded away for him.

She turns towards him, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Are you alright?” It is the wrong thing to say, she realizes, as his eyes grow distant.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, as he walks over and sits next to her on the rock as if to prove that he is as fine as he claims. He is still too far away, though.

“Well, that’s stupid,” she scoffs. She sees him stiffen out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t care. Now she is frustrated. “You’re clearly upset. What did I do?”

“What did you do?” He looks at her incredulously. “Arya, you - you left!” She stares into his eyes and they are a steely blue, hard and angry. This is not some little thing that he is upset over.

She sets her jaw. “Yes, I did. I left." In her mind, she remembers when he left her. When they were children. She remembers how she had hurt back then. A small voice in her head, a spiteful voice, says that maybe he deserved it after he had done that to her first. But, no, that was not fair, and this was not the time to bring that up. "Did you expect me to marry you and cower in your little castle and pop out heir after heir for you until we die?”

“No!” Gendry’s hand lurches forward for a second, as if to grab her hand, but he pulls it back quickly. “No, I didn’t want that. I don't want that. I know you, I – I know that’s not want you want, and it’s not what I want either. I was drunk and in shock and I asked you to be my lady but I all I really wanted was you! You, as you are, that’s all.” His voice has grown louder, and Arya can hear Sansa’s voice in her head as well, echoing the words that he is saying now.

“I had things to do!” she fires back, pushing her sister’s words out of her mind and raising her voice to match his. “I had-”

“Oh, I know. The list. I know because you ran off to King’s Landing the very next day without a single word to me, no goodbye or anything!”

She glares at him. “I thought I was going to die! You would have tried to stop me, or come with me, but it was my list to complete, not yours!”

“You didn’t die, though!” He shoots back. “You were alive, and I was alive and then you left without saying anything. Again.”

His voice falters slightly at the last word, but Arya is still angry, still upset that he doesn’t get it, that she has to spell this out for him. “I wasn’t ready, Gendry! I had a whole world I wanted to see, this time on my own terms! And you had a castle to go home to, and I couldn’t risk letting you lose everything you had just earned! Not for me.”

Gendry gets up and walks a few paces away, his fists clenched. “I found out that you had left, maybe forever, from Ser Davos, a week after it happened. And I was worried sick, absolutely terrified for you. But there was nothing I could do, I had to trust that you were as capable as I knew you were. You were gone for more than four years, Arya! And I was here. I was here, and I learned how to be a Lord and I worried about you, but I had other things to worry about too. But now you’re back, and you’re here, and you’re all I can think about and it feels like I’m still the same person I was when you left!”

Arya stands too, her hand itching to slap him. “Well, I apologize that my presence has been such an inconvenience for you! I promise that by tomorrow I will be out of your hair, and you can continue to be the perfect little Lord of Storm’s End. You can go get married to whatever girl they throw in your lap and you can keep on trying to erase my memory from your life!” She wants the words to hurt, wants them to sting, because right now her heart feels like it’s been stabbed by a million swords.

Gendry’s back is towards her, and his voice is low and tight, but she hears everything he says. “How could you think that’s what I want? I don’t want you to leave, I wish you would stay with me. But…”

“But what?” Arya demands, her head still spinning with anger.

“The way you looked at me just then. In the forest. I know that look, I think about it every day. That’s how you looked at me when I was on one knee, and you said no. And then you left.”

His voice is angry still, and so is she, but her heart breaks when she hears the pain in his tone. She’s not going to leave him again, she thinks. She wants to be with him but she doesn’t know how to tell him that, doesn’t know how to reassure him. She doesn’t know how to do much of anything. Except...

Slowly, she draws Needle from its sheath. He turns at the sound of metal, his face pained.

“I’m not going to kill you, idiot.” Her breathing is shallow. “Spar with me?”

She waits for him to draw his blade as well, moves into her fighting stance. “Are you as good with that thing as you are with a hammer?”

“I’ll let you decide.” He grunts, swinging his blade towards her, and she meets it with Needle. It is not a water dance, like when she sparred with Syrio as a child. The clash of their blades is loud and harsh, as they meet and meet again. He is far bigger than her, stronger, and faster than she had expected. His sword is heavy, but she is quick and smart, and still fueled by the rage from their fight. She can hold her own. All it takes is one hit that he doesn’t see coming, and he is slightly unbalanced. Before he can blink, the tip of Needle is at his throat.

“Not bad,” she pants, staring at him. “What happened to the hammer, anyway?”

He steps back, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I still have it. Just isn’t something I bring with me to go riding.”

He doesn’t wait for a response from her, bringing his blade back up, his eyes still blazing, and it is all she can do to parry the blow. They begin anew, each hit perfectly countered by the other’s blade, no end in sight. She is slowly driving him backwards, she thinks, but as she glances away from his blade for a split second to confirm that, he presses forward with a glancing blow that throws Needle out of her hand, and into a patch of grass several yards away. She meets his eyes as he begins to move towards her with his blade, but she is ready. She ducks, swift as a deer, and lunges forward beneath his blade, grabbing his wrist and wrenching his own sword out of his hand, throwing it as far as she can.

He is shocked for a moment, and that is all she needs as she throws herself at him, tackling him to the dirt. As they hit the ground, he throws her off, scrambling towards her as she lands to try to pin her down, but she is waiting. She brings a knee into his stomach, hard, and as his hands fly down to where she hit, she pushes him to the ground once more. She climbs on top of him, straddling his waist, and brings her dagger to his throat. She has won.

They are both breathing heavily, and as Arya pulls her dagger away from his throat, she can see that the anger has faded from his eyes. She reaches a hand up, slowly, so slowly, and touches his cheek. He tenses beneath her.

“I’m not going to leave you, Gendry. Not this time.”

He is quiet, but calm now. She stands up and offers her hand to pull him up as well, before she begins brushing the dirt off from her clothes.

Arya walks back to the rock she had been sitting on, and perches at the edge once more. She hears Gendry come up behind her, and he sits next to her. This time he is closer, and his body is relaxed. She looks down, trying to hide her smile.

“Your hair is a mess,” he remarks, reaching up to tug playfully on a loose strand. Between the wind from riding, and their scuffle in the dirt, half of her hair has been pulled out of the tight bun she usually wears it in.

Arya sighs and begins to unwind what’s left of the bun. She will have to do it over entirely. She can feel him watching her as she does so, his stare burning into her.

“You’ve grown your hair out.” She has. When she has taken it down from her bun, and unbraided it, it hangs all the way down to the middle of her back, a dull, dark brown.

“Yes,” Arya concedes, as she begins to use her fingers to comb out the tangles that have formed. He nods, his eyes trained on her fingers as they dance nimbly over her hair. They are silent for a few moments as she works.

“Where did you go?” he asks suddenly. “When you left on your ship, I mean. You haven’t told me how you spent those four years.”

Arya smiles. “Everywhere. Do you want to hear?”

He nods.

And she tells him. She tells him everything she can, and when she knows she is forgetting something, she vows to tell him once she remembers it. She tells him about every land she went to, every sea she crossed, every person she met. She tells him of her proudest moments and her lowest ones, of each time she was knocked to the dirt, and every time she stood back up. She has nothing to hide from him. He listens to her as she speaks, but his eyes are focused on her fingers as she deftly braids her locks back up on top of her head. With her tongue she spins tales for his ears, with her hands she weaves her hair, and he is entranced.

***

They return to Storm’s End in the afternoon, their clothes still dirty from their fight, and their faces flushed from racing their horses back. Arya had won. As they dismount their horses in the stables, she cannot recall the last time she had felt so content. They hand their horses off to the stable boys, and are greeted almost immediately by the maester.

“A raven for you, Lady Stark,” he says, handing her a scroll. “It says it is urgent.”

Gendry is hovering over her shoulder as she breaks the seal, his face worried. Arya reads it once, and then again, and then once more to make sure it is real. She looks up at him, her eyes shining, a smile splitting her face. “Jon is home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm just obssessed with Arya's hair at the end of 8.06, look up a picture to refresh your memory if you must. It's a look :)


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Stark family dialogue heavy, with almost no Gendry, I'm sorry :( I just love this family so much :)

He hadn’t said so, but Arya knows he had wanted to accompany her back to Winterfell. He had known there was nothing he could do to convince her to stay, not when Jon was waiting for her back home. But he also knew, just as well as she did, that she did not know how long she was planning on staying, and there was no way that he could leave his people and his lands for no concrete reason for several months with no promise of when he was to return. So he did not offer, and she did not ask.

When she had received the raven, she had immediately begun to prepare to leave the very next morning. She had informed her crew of their departure and their destination, and packed up everything she had brought with her. When she slept that night, she saw her brother in her dreams, with long dark hair and heavy furs, with a wide smile and open arms waiting just for her.

Gendry had ridden solemnly with her to the docks, to the ship that would take her away from him again, hardly speaking. Yet, when it was time for her to board her ship, he had mustered a smile, hugged her, and told her to give her family his best wishes. Arya had felt her heart break a little more as she watched how he refused to try to convince her to stay, no matter how much it may have hurt him. She had embraced him one last time, and stood on her tiptoes so she could whisper in his ear.

“I said I wasn’t going to leave you this time, and I mean it. This is just a trip back home. You’re stupider than I think if you believe I’m not going to come back to you.” He had smiled at that, a real smile this time, even if it was laced with sadness. She had to stop herself from planting a soft kiss upon the crinkled skin by his eyes as he did so.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he had murmured, giving her one last squeeze. As she sailed away, she could see him watching from the shore. She had watched him too, and kept on watching until he had disappeared into the horizon.

Now several days into her journey, Arya stands on the deck of her ship, watching the sun set. She misses him, she realizes. She had left for four years, and while she traveled across the world she had been able to squash her thoughts of him almost entirely to the back of her mind. But now they have reunited, and although she had only stayed with him for less than a week, she can no longer push him out of her head with ease. She has no idea what the nature of their relationship is. She doesn’t know what she wants it to be, she doesn’t know what it could be. All she knows is that she is going to find her way back to him. She promised.

***

As she drives her horse forward, Winterfell in her sights, Arya realizes that she is becoming weary of traveling. She is tired, and cold, and saddle-sore, and had she not known who was waiting for her inside those walls, she may have given up halfway through her journey.

Somebody on the ramparts must have seen her horse coming, because her sister is waiting for her in the courtyard as she rides through the gate. Arya swings down from her horse, handing it off to a stable boy, as she runs to embrace her sister. After a brief hug she pulls back, looking at Sansa. Jon? Her eyes ask the silent question. Sansa nods, and leads her away.

Jon is waiting in the Godswood. Arya doesn’t even give herself time to look at him closely before she runs to him and throws her arms around him. He lifts her off her feet easily, his arms locked around her. When he finally puts her back on solid ground, he holds her shoulders, looking her up and down, seeing how she has grown and changed in their years apart. She does the same to him.

Sansa was right, his hair is much longer, and his beard as well. But his hair is wildly curly and clean and healthy, and she can see small smile lines on his face. He is garbed like a Wildling, all thick furs and hides, and she thinks she even spies a braid in his hair, but he is still Jon, and he is so happy, and her heart could burst with joy.

“Took you long enough!” he grumbles good-naturedly, and she smacks him lightly, a laugh bubbling up from her chest.

Sansa steps forward, and encircles the two of them in her arms, pulling them close. “I cannot believe we are all here together.” She doesn’t say Bran’s name, but they all think it, they all wish he could have been here too. No matter how many times he says he is not Bran anymore, no matter the fact the he is King of the Six Kingdoms now, he is still their younger brother. They do not say Robb’s name either, or Rickon’s, or Theon’s or their parents. But they hang over all of them, a heavy reminder of what was lost to bring them all together again.

“When did you arrive?” Arya asks Jon, the two of them still nestled under Sansa’s arms.

“I rode for the castle as soon as I received Sansa’s letter,” Jon says, his voice just as deep as she remembers. “When I got here, I found out I had missed you by a mere two weeks. And I’ve been here ever since, just waiting for you to finally show up.”

Sansa glances at Arya, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Yes, she had some business to conduct.”

Arya pulls away from Sansa, wondering how specific Sansa has been when telling Jon where she had gone. From the look of confusion on his face as Jon asks “What business?”, she can tell that Sansa has given away very few details.

“I’m starving,” Arya announces, not wanting to breach this topic with her older brother quite yet. She shoots a pointed glance at Sansa, who smirks back at her. “Is there any way we could get a meal? Perhaps in private?”

Sansa nods, and immediately bustles off to prepare for their meals to be sent to the family solar, leaving Arya alone with Jon. She studies his face, and sees the tension that has entered it, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed in a straight line.

“What’s wrong?”

Jon sighs. “It’s hard being back here, and not being able to move freely around my old home.” At Arya’s questioning look, he continues. “I was condemned to the Night’s Watch, and I left. I am a deserter, and the punishment for that is death. When I am here, in Winterfell, I can never stay long, and I try to stay out of sights as much as I can.”

Arya is furious. “This is still your home! You can trust these people. They will not betray you under your own roof.”

“That’s what Sansa tells me,” Jon smiles ruefully. “But I am less worried for myself, and more for our sister, if it should ever be discovered that the Queen is harboring a fugitive.”

“She is the Queen in the North, a sovereign kingdom,” Arya argues. “Surely she can pardon you from this crime.”

“She is trying to,” Jon says, shaking his head. “But she is not the one who passed the sentence. She is in contact with Bran and his council. Since the Night’s Watch is effectively dissolved, she is attempting to make a deal to absolve any of the few remaining brothers of their vows.”

Arya smiles. “As always, she is five steps ahead of me. She will be able to do it, you know. You will be able to finally come back to Winterfell.”

“Yes,” Jon hesitates. “Yes, it will be much easier for me to visit then.”

Arya stares at him. “Just visit? Even if Sansa arranges a pardon, you will continue to live north of the Wall, with the Wildlings?”

“Free folk.” Jon corrects her. “Yes, I would. They have become family to me now, and I love them as such. They view me as a leader. I cannot abandon them.”

“And what about us?” Arya desperately tries to stop the tears from welling in her eyes. She is sad, yes, but she is also angry at him, and does not want him to see her cry. “Are we not your family? You would choose that family over your own?”

“I am not choosing anybody over you, Arya!” Jon grabs her hand gently. “You are my family, now and always.” He trails off, his eyes darting around as he seems to consider what he is about to say. “Are you truly going to stay in Winterfell? You were gone, for years. You finally returned, and then left once more after only a couple weeks. Perhaps there is a part of you, just like me, that cannot stay here forever.”

Arya is silent. In five minutes of being home, Jon has managed to pin down the topic that she has avoided confronting for weeks. She does not want to leave Sansa without family here. Yet she will not leave Gendry alone in Storm’s End. If Jon is beyond the Wall, with the Wil – no, the Free folk. If he is with the Free folk, he can still visit Sansa. Perhaps her sister will not be so alone. And Winterfell will always be here for her, its gates will always be open and her chambers will always be empty and waiting. But she has always worried that she would not be able to settle in one place, and even though Winterfell is her childhood home, for every good memory she has here, there are a hundred ones tainted by the battle that had devastated the castle. She does not think that, if she ever does settle down, she can do so in a place haunted by nightmares. The thought of making such a severe decision so soon is not something she wishes to dwell on tonight, and she shudders. Jon, observing her silently, notices her despair.

“Forget I said anything,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We are back together and that's what matters. Let’s go eat.”

***

She has been in Winterfell for a few days when she finds herself sitting in front of a roaring fire with Sansa as her sister works on stitching some sort of fabric. She sees Jon as much as possible, but when he disappears, he is almost impossible to find, and she now understands how he is able to stay in Winterfell without most of the household being aware. She supposes that rumors must fly among them, but she knows that nothing will come of it. They will not betray her family, they will not betray their Queen.

Arya looks at her sister as she works, noticing how Sansa’s tongue pokes through her lips as she focuses, just as it always had when she was younger. Sansa seems to feel her eyes on her, and she looks up, setting her work aside.

“Are you ready to talk about him yet?” Sansa’s voice is impatient but not unkind.

“I don’t know how much there is to talk about,” Arya mutters.

Sansa arches an eyebrow at her, and Arya didn’t need to hear any words to know that Sansa knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

She sighs. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Sansa. I – he is just as I remembered him. Better, even.” She can hear her voice softening as she spoke of him, but she cannot stop it. “He’s a wonderful lord. I knew he would be, of course, but watching him interact with his people as equals – he is exactly what a truly good lord should be.”

“And yet he still has no lady?” Sansa’s eyes study her younger sister as she shakes her head tensely in response.

“No. No, there are a few ladies still there, and maybe they are still pushing for a betrothal, but I do not think he wants that.”

“Perhaps he would with you?”

Arya looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. She doesn’t know, and she tells her sister as much. “That may be what he wants, but I don’t know if I can do it, Sansa. I don’t know if I can ever settle down. Even…”

“Even with him?” Sansa finishes her words, and Arya nods, her stomach clenching. She wants to be with him, she knows that for sure. But she has never been a woman who could be caged. He knows this, and she knows he would never try to do so, not on purpose. It scares her, even so.

Sansa takes Arya’s hand. “Are you going to go back to him?” Arya searches her sister’s voice for any loneliness, any sadness at the prospect of her younger sister leaving once more, but it does not seem to be there. Sansa only wants what is best for her.

Arya balls up her fist. “I promised him that I wouldn’t leave again, and then I did exactly that the very next day. I told him I would be back, but who knows if he even wants that anymore?”

Sansa dismisses this notion with a scoff. “I do not know him well, but I can assure you that is not true.” Arya hopes desperately that she is right.

“But what about you?” she protests suddenly.

Sansa looks confused. “Me?”

“I can’t just leave you here alone again! Jon will not be staying, and you would be the only Stark in Winterfell.”

“As I have been for nearly five years now,” Sansa’s voice is gentle. “I have missed you greatly, and I love having you home again, but I have not been alone. I have Brienne, I have my ladies, and all of the household who I love dearly. We will always be each other’s family, but we must also choose our own families, just as you and Jon have done. And unless you sail off west in your ship again, we will always be able to visit each other. I will not allow you to use me as a reason to hold yourself back.”

Arya knows she is telling the truth. For a moment she dares to imagine it, dares to dream of staying there with him. It seems right. She hopes it will feel right. She doesn’t want to speculate now, though, doesn’t want to get her hopes up, and so she turns to look back at her sister, a small smile on her face for the first time that night as she changes the subject. “You forgot somebody.”

Sansa looks at her innocently, feigning confusion.

“When you were listing your family. You didn’t mention Ser Podrick.” Sansa has probed far too much information out of Arya, and Arya wants to return the favor.

Even in the dark of the room, Arya can see the blush spreading prettily across Sansa’s cheeks. “I suppose I did. He is family too, of course.”

“He loves you,” Arya interjects bluntly. Her sister is shocked into silence. “I can tell. And I think you-- ”

Sansa cuts her off, shaking her head sadly. “It doesn’t matter. He is part of my Queensguard, and sworn to serve me for life, sworn to take no other vows.”

Arya laughs. “Here you are, the first Queen in thousands of years of the independent North, and yet you are still following the laws of the kingdom that you just broke away from. If anybody is allowed to pardon a Queensguard from his vows, it is the Queen herself.”

A smile flashes across her sister’s face briefly. “Perhaps. I do not know what he would want, however. He may not wish to be released from his vows.”

“He would still be a knight, but also a lord. A king, technically. And most importantly, he would have you.” Arya looks at Sansa pointedly, but her sister looks away, her eyes troubled. “You deserve to marry the man you love, Sansa. You deserve your own family.”

“And so do you,” Sansa turns to her. The sisters stare at each other, both of their jaws set firmly and stubbornly. They don't often look alike, but right now they are mirror images. They each wish the other to move forward in their lives, to do what they themselves are afraid of doing.

Sansa eventually breaks her gaze, shaking her head with a small smile. “Perhaps I shall take your advice. As long as you take mine.”

***

“You’re leaving.” Jon’s voice cuts through the chilly air as they ride through the Northern forest at a leisurely pace.

“So are you.” Arya slows her horse to look at him. They had both been at Winterfell for almost two weeks now, but when he had asked her to go riding with him, she had known what was coming.

“Yes,” Jon says. “I told you I would.”

A thought strikes her as they pick their way through the woods, something he had said in their first conversation. “You said you are a leader to the Freefolk?” A smirk creeps across her face. “Not a king, surely?”

“No, not a king. I don’t have a title, and it’s not just me. There’s a small group of us who they chose to make decisions for the good of the people. They are not forced to follow us, they choose to. And with me gone, all the calls have likely been made by Tormund and Val, so it really is time for me to get back before they run the people into the ground.” He lets out a chuckle.

Arya studies his face, examining the joy that appears on it as he speaks of his people. The hurt that she had originally felt as she thought she was being replaced as Jon’s family is gone, and she is happy for him. Truly.

“You will come back, though?” Arya asks, needing confirmation that she will see him again.

“Aye, I will. Sansa believes she has almost finished with the negotiations to dissolve the Night’s Watch. Maybe I won’t be a fugitive next time you see me, and I won’t have to travel here alone.”

Arya nods, warming at the thought of seeing Ghost again, seeing that strange man, Tormund, and any other Freefolk who may love Jon as much as she does.

“You will not be here either, though?” It is more of a reminder than a question. She has not explicitly told Jon of her plans, but she supposes she must now, before they both leave.

She shakes her head. “I plan to leave for Storm’s End within the week.” She waits for his reaction with bated breath. During their time at Winterfell, they had spoken for hours upon hours, telling each other of their journeys over the past few years. She hadn’t mentioned Gendry to him once, though, and she knows Sansa hadn’t either.

Jon’s dark brows collide on his forehead as he processes what she just said. “Why Storm’s End? What is there for you?”

Now or never, she thinks. “I’m going to stay with Gendry. The Lord Baratheon.” She remembers how Jon and Gendry had been fast friends during the war, when they had all been at Winterfell. She hopes he still thinks of him as a friend. Years ago, when Jon had stumbled upon them speaking in the forge, he had immediately become protective over his younger sister. She had quickly explained how they knew each other, and how neither of them would have been alive without the other, and he had backed down. But this … he may not take as kindly to this.

Now, she watches his face carefully, and she can see when he remembers this information, how he processes it, and then realizes the implications. A pained look washes over him. “Is this – are you – no, please, don’t say anything.”

She doesn’t, just looks calmly at her brother as he thinks. He runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

“That would be correct.”

He sighs heavily. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Arya laughs. “I’m not going to marry him, Jon.” Not yet, she thinks. “He is my family, as the Freefolk are yours.”

Jon grunts, unconvinced. “Very well. Remind him, though, that I may be a wanted man but I will not hesitate to risk my head down in the Southern lands if he ever hurts you.”

Arya nods solemnly, promising to pass on the message. They ride in silence for a while. She will miss this, miss him.

He seems to read her thoughts. “We will both come back to Winterfell, many times. This is far from the last time you will see me, Arya.”

“I know,” she says, a bittersweet feeling welling in her heart. “It's not up to us, really. Sansa will drag us both back here by our ears to visit. We have no say in the matter.” Jon chuckles lightly at the image.

Arya wonders when she had stopped referring to Winterfell as her home.

***

Jon leaves before she does, crushing her in a hug, tears in both of their eyes as he instructs her on how to contact him if necessary. She watches him go from the ramparts with Sansa, her eyes trained on his back until he is just a tiny dark speck on the landscape. This farewell hurts far less than their previous ones, however. This farewell is filled with hope.

Arya leaves only a few days later, her few belongings loaded onto the back of a fresh horse. She will ride it to White Harbor, where her ship is docked.

She looks at her sister with misty eyes. Sansa stands tall and graceful as always, somehow maintaining a regal demeanor even as she sweeps Arya into her arms with an almost imperceptible sob. “Travel safely,” Sansa says, and she makes Arya promise to send a raven when she has arrived at Storm’s End. The sisters look at each other, unspoken words passing between their blue and gray eyes, urging each other to find happiness, to keep living.

Arya mounts her horse and begins her journey. One last look back sees Sansa standing in the courtyard, dangerously close to Ser Podrick. Arya thinks she may have seen her sister grab the knight’s hand with her own, she is not sure, but then she is through the gate, and she is leaving Winterfell.

Storm’s End is not home for her either, not yet. But Gendry is home, and that is where she is going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's sentence in the finale made no sense to me, so I'm trying to unscramble it here. And yes, I know that Sansa would realistically have to marry a Northern lord, or maybe a lord from the Six Kingdoms to make an alliance, but I am choosing to ignore that, because my girl deserves to choose who she wants to marry for once in her life <3


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek! :)

Her journey back to the Stormlands is an exercise in patience and endurance. On the way to White Harbor she falls briefly ill. When she falls asleep in her small inn room she is well, but in the morning her head is pounding, and a wave of nausea overcomes her body. She thinks back to the meal she had shared in the crowded dining area the night before and groans, knowing that somebody in the inn had also shared a sickness with her. Because of that she refuses to stay and rest, lest she fall even more ill from exposure, and the rest of her journey to her ship is miserable and slow-going. Once she boards her ship, Arya allows the sharp, salty air to clear out her head and lungs, and is feeling better.

But the weather is not so kind, and it feels as though the sea is working against them the whole time, turning what should have been less than a month’s journey into almost double that. On one particularly nasty day, Arya is on deck as a storm batters her ship. She is stupid, not paying attention to how the rain has made the deck slick, and when a strong wave jostles the ship, she slips, crashing headfirst into a crate. Stupid. Her eye is blackened and her lip split, and she doesn’t have anything but an embarrassing story to tell for it.

All this to say that, when she finally arrives in Storm’s End, she is exhausted, sporting a beautifully yellowing bruise over the right side of her face, and her patience has worn disturbingly thin.

She can see the castle looming in the distance as she rides towards the gates, and her heart swells slightly as she urges her mount to pick up the pace. She hasn’t sent any word to announce her arrival, and she tries to picture the surprise that will color Gendry’s face when he sees her.

The guards let her through the gate with no trouble, and she heads to the stables. She is amazed at how comfortable she feels here, despite having only stayed for less than a week in the previous months. Before she can dismount, she hears his voice, coming from up on the ramparts, and she turns rapidly, tilting her eyes up to locate him.

And there he is, tall and dark, pacing along the ramparts, arm-in-arm with the beautiful blonde noblewoman she had seen so many times.

Arya’s heart seems to stop beating in her chest. She watches as he says something that makes the lady laugh, and her laugh is infuriatingly beautiful. The woman swats at his arm playfully, and Arya’s breath hitches in her throat, her eyes narrowing, a terrifyingly calm rage settling over her. She wants to scream, but instead she digs her knees into her horse’s sides – her poor horse, so close to the stables, but forced to leave once more – and whirls back towards where she had just entered. The horse’s hooves are loud, too loud as she drives him to a gallop through the exit, and she makes the mistake of looking back one last time before she rides away.

His blue eyes are wide, his expression unreadable as he stares at her, but it is too late, and she swings back around, her horse carrying her swiftly away. She thinks she hears his voice yell her name as she retreats.

***

He finds her, later that night, at an inn in the village that sits just outside of his castle. She is with her crew members, gathered around a table in the corner, a heavy mug of ale in her hand. Her crew members are loud and foul-mouthed, and she is grateful for the distraction, pouring ale down her throat as she tries to think of anything but the woman’s delicate hand wrapped around his arm, her tinkling laugh, the closeness with which he had walked beside her. 

Her crew had been surprised when she came back so soon to join them, but a sharp look from her had silenced any questions they may have had, as she led them to the nearest inn to find something to drink. She has been here for several hours now, and her head is swimming with alcohol. Her senses are dulled, and she does not even notice that he has entered the inn until her crew begins to fall silent. She looks up and nearly laughs at him as he makes his way over to her. He looks so out of place here, his noble clothes are far too fine, as if his mere presence wasn’t enough to be conspicuous. But his jaw is set as he approaches, ignoring the incredulous looks that he is getting from the smallfolk. She assumes this is the first time their lord has ever graced this inn with his presence.

“Arya.” He is right next to her, his presence heavy in the corner of her eye. He is not somebody who she could ever ignore.

She spins to face him, barely controlling the sneer that tries to take over her face. “Yes, my lord?”

She is darkly pleased to see anger spark momentarily in his eyes. Good. She is furious, she wants him to be as well. She wants a fight. 

When he does not say anything, Arya breaks his gaze, pulling herself together enough to look around her. The inn is quiet, the patrons trying and failing to ignore their lord and the lady he is speaking to. She doesn’t want to do this here, not in front of his people. She is angry, yes, but she won’t cause a scene like this. She can’t do that to him.

She stands abruptly, smashing the table with her hip. That will hurt tomorrow, but she doesn’t feel it right now. “Shall we go for a walk?” Her voice is cool, laced with fury. But he follows her as she stalks out of the inn.

It is dark outside, and the night breeze is chilled and salty as it hits her face. The chill sobers her slightly, but not nearly enough. She can feel the rage burning in her belly, the alcohol its fuel. They make their way off the main street, away from any people who may still be milling around, and towards the docks. There, to her left, there is a small quay where no ship has docked, and she walks all the way to the end, staring at the choppy sea in front of her, the winds whipping at her clothes. He stops a few feet behind her, silent.

“Am I to congratulate you on a betrothal, my lord?” She doesn’t turn around as she speaks. She means for the words to come out scathingly, but they only sound embarrassingly wounded as the wind carries them away.

“That’s the farthest thing from the truth,” he says, and his voice is soft, almost pitying. It infuriates her. “You don’t know what you saw-”

“Don’t I?” She spins to face him, anger surging inside her. “I thought it was pretty clear. I saw this--” She throws her arm out, meaning to punch him on the arm, punch him right where the woman had playfully smacked his arm. She had no right to touch him like that. But he catches her hand easily, his fingers locking around her wrist. 

“Let go!” she scowls, but she can’t pull away from his iron grip.

“Arya,” he says.

“Let go of me!” She hits his chest with her other arm, trying to get a reaction from him, trying to get something, anything. But he catches her other arm before she can continue, and she is locked in his grip now. If she were sober, he wouldn’t be able to hold both of her arms so easily like this. She thinks of aiming a kick at him. “Fight back, you idiot! Why won’t you fight me back?”

He ignores her goading, slowly pulling her arms down, but not releasing her yet. “There is nothing happening with Lady Flissa. My advisors, they wished me to speak with her, but it was just formalities. Nothing will happen, I promise. I’m sorry.” 

He is so maddeningly calm, and he is apologizing to her? Arya is enraged. “I don’t want your stupid apologies! I don’t need to be talked down like a child!” She breaks her wrists out of his grip quickly, as he is caught off guard by her words, yanking herself away. “Why are you apologizing? This is what you’ve always wanted, a proper lady, and now you have her! Leave me alone!”

There. She sees his jaw clench, sees him frown, knows she is getting to him. “I’m not going to leave you alone! I don’t want a lady, I never have. I don’t want her.” His gaze burns into her.

Arya scoffs in his face. “Yes, you do. When you were made a lord, the very first thing you did was ask me to be your lady.” 

He groans in frustration. “I already told you, that was stupid. I was drunk and fucked it up. I only wanted you, and I told myself that now that we were of equal status, I could finally have you!”

“You know I’ve never cared about that!” Arya cries. 

“Of course you can say that. You were always highborn. I was a lowborn bastard for almost my entire life. I don't get the option to not care! It’s different!” His voice is getting louder. 

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself!” She wants to shove him into the water. “I chose you! I didn’t care what you were born into, I chose you back then, and I asked you to come with me but you left me anyway because of your stupid, bloody inferiority complex!” She is walking a dangerous line, she knows that, but she can’t stop. Now she has reopened the wound he gave her all those years ago and she needs him to know how he hurt her.

Gendry is caught off guard, his eyes widening slightly. 

She feels tears welling as her anger crumbles away, and runs the back of her hand across her eyes furiously, trying to stop them before they can fall. “You left me back then. I didn’t give a shit about your status, I just wanted to stay with you, and you left me.” He opens his mouth, about to say something, but Arya keeps talking. “I know I left you too, I know I left you more. But I’m back now, like I promised. I came back.”

“So did I.” He is so stubborn. So foolishly, bullishly stubborn. But he is right. No matter how many times they have left each other, they have always found their way back to each other. Why do they insist on hurting each other, over and over again? She is tired of it, she is weary of fighting him. She just wants to be with him.

“I don’t plan on leaving again,” she says slowly, refusing to meet his eyes, scared of what he might say.

“Neither do I.” He steps closer to her.

The moon breaks out from behind the clouds, illuminating the water around them, casting pale light on both of their faces. Gendry’s brow furrows. “What happened to your eye?” He reaches a hand out, lightly touching the still bruised skin around her eye. His fingers are rough and calloused, and Arya knows that he has been at work in the forge recently. He traces the bruise across her brow and down the side of her face, before pulling his hand back. She wishes he would have left it there.

“Stupid accident on my ship,” she mutters, not wanting to give him the details. He would find them hilarious. He hums in agreement, his eyes betraying his curiosity, but he doesn’t push for more information.

The moon has already begun to fade back behind the clouds again. They stand less than a foot apart on the empty docks, and Arya looks up at his face. He is slightly flushed from their argument, although she supposes she is too, probably more so considering the copious amounts of ale she had consumed earlier. She is still feeling the effects of the drink, the lightness in her head evidence of that. He is staring down at her, but not at her eyes, she realizes. No, he is staring at her lips, and she finds her eyes drawn to his mouth as well. If she just took one more step forward, if she closed the already small gap between them, she could press her lips to his like she did all those years ago.

Gods, she wants to kiss him. She wants to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. She wants to kiss him hard enough to split her lip back open, and the look in his eyes tells her that he is thinking the same thing.

But there is a raucous yell from behind them, and she tears herself away from his gaze to look at the group of drunken sailors approaching the dock next to the one that they currently stand on. He takes a step back from her, shaking his head as if awakening from a trance. 

“We should get back,” he says. “I’ve had a room made up for you. Will you stay at the castle tonight?” His voice is hesitant, clearly remembering her anger from moments before.

But Arya just nods. Of course she will. They walk back to the inn where he had found her in a comfortable silence, and when they reach his horse, he insists that she is in no state of mind to ride alone. She wants to protest, but when he reaches his hand out to her from atop his horse, she can’t stop herself from taking it. She settles in the saddle behind him and wraps her arms tightly around his middle, pressing her body against his back, wanting to get as close to him as she can. Her head is resting against his shoulder blades, and she doesn’t know how, but she can tell he is smiling as he urges the horse forward with the reins in one hand. His other hand comes down to gently cover her clasped hands at his waist as they make their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the fighting is frustrating but it just reminds me of ASOIAF, and how they will be at each other's throats one minute, then joking the next. i just adore their relationship ugh


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy! :)

Arya is with the maester of Storm’s End, giving him the scroll she had written to inform Sansa of her safe arrival, when a servant interrupts with news that Ser Davos Seaworth has arrived. The maester thanks the boy, and Arya quickly finishes her instructions to send the message to Winterfell as soon as possible, before making her way down to the courtyard. She arrives just in time to see Gendry hug the man in greeting, and Arya hangs back, not wanting to interrupt.

Davos notices her almost immediately, though. “Lady Stark! I was not aware that you were here.”

She makes her way over to the man. “I only arrived two days ago. It’s good to see you.” She had never known him well, but Jon and Gendry both trusted and loved him. Just for that, she was truly happy to see him. 

“You as well, my lady.” Gendry laughs quietly at the use of her title, but she just shakes her head with a smile. 

“How is my brother faring in King’s Landing these days?” Arya keeps pace with Ser Davos as he starts towards the castle with Gendry. She knows the two men must have things to talk about privately, but she wants to hear news of Bran.

“His Grace is doing just fine.” Davos’ voice is laced with amusement. “He has just reached a compromise with the Queen in the North that you may be interested in.”

“The Night’s Watch?” Arya’s heart picks up speed. Has Jon been released from his vows?

“Exists no longer,” Ser Davos confirms. “I can’t imagine who this arrangement could possibly benefit enough for our two dear monarchs to prioritize it so.”

Gendry snorts. “Those Stark siblings. Everything is an ordeal with them.” Arya gives his arm a playful shove, forgetting they are not alone. She pulls her arm back quickly, but a glance at Davos’ face tells her that he has not missed the easy familiarity between the two. She wonders what Gendry has told him.

Arya parts ways with the two men before they reach the Lord’s Tower, wanting to give them time alone to speak. Before she can walk away, though, Ser Davos speaks up. “Will the lady be joining us tonight?”

Arya raises an eyebrow at Gendry. “We will be taking a private supper in my solar tonight, if you would care to join us,” he manages, meeting her eyes warily. 

“I would be honored,” she says, nodding before spinning away swiftly to hide the smile breaking across her face.

***

He sends for her a few hours later, and she cannot tell if it is excitement or nerves taking root in her belly as she makes her way to his tower. She has not been in his private quarters before, and the thought of seeing where he lives makes her heart pound embarrassingly fast as she climbs the stairs to his solar. When she reaches the top, though, the thick door is cracked slightly ajar, and she can hear voices from inside. She doesn’t mean to, but her instincts take over, and she falls back into the shadows, silently making her way as close to the cracked door as possible on light feet, slowing her breathing.

“…they are very upset, lad. I’ve been told, numerous times, that every eligible lady has been sent away from the castle. I think I’m meant to talk some sense into you.” Yes, that was Davos speaking, unmistakably. Arya knows she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she can’t help it. She’ll only listen for a few seconds more, that’s all.

There is a frustrated groan in response. Gendry. “I didn’t send anyone away. They left on their own.”

“Due to your utter lack of interest, no doubt. I know you don’t want to get married, for God knows what reason, but you are the Lord of Storm’s End and-”

“And I need an heir. Believe me, I know.” Gendry’s voice trails off here, and she has to strain to here what he says. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry, but…”

“You just don’t want to marry those ladies. So, then which lady will do it for you?” Arya doesn't think she is imagining the knowing tone in Davos' voice.

Gendry is silent for a moment, and Arya wants desperately to hear more but she forces herself to stop. She knocks on the door, hard and loud, and composes her face into a calm façade before pushing her way in. They both stare at her, clearly wondering what she has heard, but she gives no clue that she has heard any part of the conversation at all.

Ser Davos shoots out of his seat abruptly, a moment too late, and bows slightly at her. “My lady.”

“There’s really no need to call me that, Davos,” Arya replies, walking to the table the two men were sitting around and sliding into a seat. “Just Arya is fine.”

The man nods, and Gendry, who has been quiet since she walked in, his eyes looking anywhere but at her, only hums softly in agreement. When neither man says anything else, Arya takes a moment to look around the room. The walls are light gray stone and the floor a rich dark wood. A large fireplace sits on the opposite wall, a small couch resting in front of it, and a desk, made of the same wood as the table she is now sitting at, is nestled under a window that opens to the night sky. The furnishings are otherwise sparse, save the small Baratheon banner hanging on an empty wall. How very Gendry, she thinks.

She is saved from the silence that has near grown uncomfortable by the door opening as a servant brings their meal in. Once they have begun to eat, Ser Davos finally speaks. “How is your brother doing?”

“I think I can safely assume you are speaking of Jon, and not our good King Bran?”

“Aye,” Davos says, chuckling. 

Arya pauses. She doesn’t know how much Davos knows, or how much she can say. Does he know that Jon has deserted the Night’s Watch, or that he has been back to Winterfell several times since doing so? But, no, the Night’s Watch is dissolved now, and, anyway, Davos loves Jon like a son. He would never use this information against him, or his family. “He’s very well,” she says finally. “He is beyond the Wall most of the time, but he has visited my sister at Winterfell. I saw him last time he was there.”

Davos smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“He is truly happy,” Arya says. “I never thought I would be able to say that about him again.”

The older man chuckles. “Aye, neither did I. I had always hoped I would be able to see the boy again. Perhaps now that we have lost the Night’s Watch…”

“He would love that,” she says, before nodding to Gendry. “He would love to see you again as well, I’m sure.”

Gendry finally meets her eye. “I would as well.”

“I suppose we will all just have to take a journey up to the North when we find a free moment then,” Davos quips, as he pours a cup of wine for each of them. Arya watches approvingly, hoping that some drink will loosen Gendry up from how tightly-wound he is at the moment. 

“Yes, and I know you both have no shortage of those,” she teases, finally pulling a small laugh from Gendry, and a much larger one from Davos.

“I don’t even do anything important here, and I never have a free moment,” Gendry grumbles.

“That’s not true, lad, and you know it,” Davos disagrees. “You unite the people under a common lord, and from what I’ve heard you’ve done a damn good job of it. They seem to love you.”

Arya nods in agreement. “They do. I can’t understand why, but they do.” Gendry rolls his eyes, kicking her foot lightly under the table as she laughs. Ser Davos clears his throat, and Arya’s laugh dies, Gendry’s foot pulling backwards sharply as the older man looks at the two of them suspiciously.

Gendry changes the subject.

***

Their supper lasts for over an hour as Ser Davos shares stories of his times in King’s Landing with Bran and his small council, Arya shares stories of her years traveling, and Gendry speaks of his trials as a new lord. They have just emptied the pitcher of wine when Davos yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “I think I’d best be getting to bed,” he announces, eyeing the two young people. “If you wanted advice from an old man, I’d say that you two would do well to do the same.”

Arya nods vigorously as Gendry mutters some sort of agreement. Davos looks unconvinced, but he bids them good night and exits, leaving them alone. 

Gendry is quiet now, and Arya drains the last of her wine, savoring the warm feeling it leaves in her chest. The warmth doesn’t last long, though, and she shivers as a cool sea breeze blows in from the window. He notices, of course he does, and gets up to shut the window, but when he turns back she has already moved to the couch in front of the fireplace, kicking off her boots and curling up.

Arya feels him hesitating, and she knows it is her turn to encourage him, so she pats the seat next to her. “It’s far more comfortable than those chairs.”

“Oh, you have a problem with my chairs, do you?” The couch sinks slightly as he sits, close to her, but not nearly as close as she wishes, not close enough to be touching. 

“I’m sure I’ve sat in better, that’s all,” she laughs.

He looks at her, his blue eyes clouded with something that she can’t identify. “I’m sure you have.” 

She doesn’t know why she says it, but she does. “I heard you speaking with Ser Davos,” she blurts bluntly. “Before I walked in here, I heard part of your conversation.”

He leans back with a groan. “I knew it. Arya, I-”

“No!” He looks at her, startled at her loud voice. She shakes her head. “I mean, no. Don’t apologize, or whatever it is you were about to do. I liked – I mean…” 

He looks at her questioningly as she trails off. “What exactly did you hear?”

“Almost nothing, really,” she swears. But she can’t help herself. “Is it true? That all of your suitors have left?”

“Yes,” he answers hesitantly. “I suppose I am not exactly an ideal match. They seemed to grow tired of me quickly.”

Arya doesn’t believe that, not at all, and she thinks he knows that. “Even…?” 

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence for him to know who she is talking about. “Yes, even her.”

It’s silly, Arya thinks, that she still wonders about the blonde woman. She has never met the woman, doesn’t know anything about her, has only seen her from afar. The lady had become a petty rival in her mind, and Arya feels stupid. She has never wanted to be the jealous type. Even so, she is relieved.

She is a brave woman in almost all aspects of her life, but she doesn’t feel that way now. It is the wine, still softly clouding her mind, that gives her the push, allows her to ask her next question, even as her hands shake. “What will you do, then? I don’t believe your advisors will allow you to remain unmarried and heirless.”

“No, I don’t believe they will.” He doesn’t look at her as he says this. 

Arya knows what he is thinking of. She is thinking of it too, of that night years ago. Of the feast, where he, slightly more than tipsy, had found her, had told her of his new title. Had proposed. More than anything, she is thinking of how she had said no. How she had seen his face fall, his despair written on his face more plainly than anything he had ever felt before. She knows this memory is holding him back, she knows he is trying to keep himself safe from further rejection. She can’t blame him. It holds her back as well. 

They fall silent, for how long she doesn’t know. Her head has begun to hurt. Surely it can’t be from the wine, not yet. Perhaps it is her hair, which she had pulled back, her anxiety making her yank more tightly than usual, into her standard style before she came to dinner. She cannot deal with this now, does not want one more thing making her head spin. 

She reaches her hands behind her head to her braided bun, fingers fumbling desperately to find the pins that hold her hair in place, needing them out of her head.

“What are you doing?”

“My head aches. My hair is too tight.”

Gendry watches her for a moment, watches her shaking fingers struggle to locate her hairpins. “Here,” he sighs. “Let me.”

Arya feels her heart stop as his hands land on her shoulders, turning her so that her back is to him. His hands travel to the back of her head, gently removing her own hands from her hair. Her shoulders are tense as she feels him find one of the hairpins easily, pulling it out and placing it carefully on his thigh. She wonders how he found it so easily, and a memory flashes in her mind of their day by the stream, how he had watched her so reverently as she had taken her hair down, his eyes never leaving as she had braided and repinned it. Her chest burns with something she can’t pin, something like happiness. Only it is stronger, so much stronger. 

He has removed rest of the pins, and begins to unwind her bun slowly. His hands are too large and rough to be as gentle as they are, she thinks.

“Why do you always wear your hair like this?” His voice is soft, and she can just barely feel his breath on the back of her neck.

“It gets in the way,” she shrugs. He has begun to undo her braid now, his fingers deft as he unwinds the strands of hair. “I take it down when I sleep.”

One of his hands brushes her neck momentarily as he works, and she shivers. She doesn’t think there is any way he didn’t notice that, but he doesn’t say anything, just finishes undoing her braid, until her hair swings freely down her back in waves.

“I like it down,” he says. His fingers comb through her tresses, and her headache is already fading. She doesn’t think she has felt something so soothing in years, her eyes fluttering shut. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’ll wear it down for you,” Arya says. She can feel his hands freeze, still entangled in his hair. Her eyes snap open. She didn’t mean to say that out loud.

He pulls his hands from her hair slowly, and she misses the warmth almost immediately. Spinning, she grabs one of his hands with both of hers. “Gendry.” She doesn’t know what she wants to say. He stares at her, still as a statue, eyes impossibly wide and blue, his breathing shallow. She can’t do this right now.

Arya lifts his hand to her mouth, and kisses his knuckles softly, hearing him draw in a sharp breath. “I – thank you.” She doesn’t wait for a response. She releases his hand, grabs the boots she had kicked off what feels like hours ago, and runs out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh so sorry to end it here!! I just think they would take things wayyyyy slower this time - there is no threat of death, but there is a fear of rejection in both of them. also toying w/the idea of a Sansa POV so that may happen soon, just to catch up on what's happening in Winterfell :)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa POV!! uploading this at the same time as the next chapter, which is back to arya, ofc. sansa is actually my favorite character (just barely ahead of arya) so i had to write a little something for her :)

Her days as Queen feel as though they drag out longer and longer, her duties seemingly endless as she meets with her council to discuss laws and foreign relations, listens to petitions from her people for hours, and manages her estate, trying to be as frugal as possible while still providing plenty for every resident. Sansa is good at this, she knows. She has spent far too long in different castles under cruel rulers, and she has learned what she can and cannot do, what will turn her people against her, what will make her people love her, as she has always wished. But she still slips into her bed every night exhausted and lonely. She spends her days surrounded by people, yet when she is finally free of duty, she wishes, no matter how hard she may try to push the thought out of her head, that she had somebody to spend her time with.

She doesn’t let that distract her. She negotiates trade deals with the Six Kingdoms, securing grain for her people so that they don’t have to farm all of it themselves. She has secured the dissolution of the Night’s Watch and the absolution of those few men left from those vows. Jon is no longer a deserter, and is free to live in her North. She oversees construction at Winterfell, as her childhood home must be expanded and remodeled to fit the needs of a Queen and her court. Every few months she travels among her lands, visiting castles and holdfasts and villages, speaking with her lords and their people. She settles disputes among both minor and major lords and families, always speaking with her council and advisors before making her final decision, the one that she thinks is most fair. They call her the Fair Queen, after all, both for her beauty and her compromises.

Throughout all of this, she has Ser Podrick by her side. Ser Brienne as well, of course, but Brienne is the commander of her Queensguard and her forces, and has far more duties. Podrick has become her personal guard, accompanying her whenever she leaves her castle, escorting her wherever she may need. When she is too exhausted to join her household for a large supper in the hall, he and Brienne will join her and her ladies in her solar for a private meal. He has become a pillar in her life without her even realizing.

Sansa tries not to think about the conversation she had had with Arya weeks ago, how Arya had implied that Sansa was in love with her knight. How Arya had not implied, but had told her bluntly, that her knight was in love with his queen. She shrugs these memories off. What does her little sister know about love? Maybe not much, a small voice in her head says. But she has left to go find the man that she loves. She has the right idea.

These thoughts intrude on her mind as she sits at her high table, the feast she has hosted for the arrival of Lord Hornwood and his men still carrying on in front of her. Lord Hornwood sits to her right with his lady wife, and she has made conversation with them for most of the night, but she is unable to muster up the energy to continue even the polite formalities at the moment. The lord does not seem to mind, he is deep in quiet conversation with his wife.

Sansa sips from her sweet wine, eyes travelling around the room. They land on Podrick. She had given him leave to enjoy the feast for the night, and he is seated with some of her soldiers, participating in a lively conversation. She watches as he speaks, his eyes lighting up with laughter, his grin splitting his face. He is a man now, but still boyishly handsome, she thinks. Very handsome. His jaw is covered with stubble, his thick, dark hair longer than it had been when she had known him as a young squire, and his broad shoulders and arms betray his strength.

She watches as he eats and drinks. A serving girl approaches him, shyly refilling his cup as she places a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes narrow as he says something that makes the girl laugh, but their conversation does not last long. He is always being approached by pretty girls, is always nothing but polite to them. Sansa assumes these girls have heard the rumors about him, the rumors that have followed him all the way from King’s Landing, where Lord Tyrion could not stop talking about them. But she has never seen him go any farther than friendly conversation with a woman. He is a loyal member of her Queensguard, sworn to take no wife and father no children, but that has never stopped most Kingsguard from being with women before. Perhaps he values his honor more than that, she thinks. She wonders why she decided to have her Queensguard swear the same vows as the Southern kingdoms.

Sansa has been staring too long, and he eventually turns to look at her, a surprised look in his eyes when he sees she is already looking back. He smiles at her, softly, and her heart flutters annoyingly in her chest. But she cannot say anything to him from all the way up here, and breaks her gaze away.

Nearly an hour passes before the feast truly concludes. She is the host, and must stay in the hall until almost everyone has left. But when the Lord Hornwood, and most of his men have retired, she is ready to leave. Somehow he can tell, maybe he can read the expressions on her face, but by the time she has stood from her chair, Podrick is already waiting at the end of her table to escort her.

She takes the arm he has offered, her hand wrapping around his wrist easily, as she has done a thousand times before. “How did you enjoy the feast?”

“It was lovely, Your Grace,” he says evenly. “The food was wonderful.”

“Call me Sansa, Podrick,” she reminds him, not rudely. “Please.”

He glances around them, as he always does, assuring that they are alone as he escorts her down the corridor before he drops her proper title. “Of course, Sansa.”

“I always find these feasts far less enjoyable than the meals we often share privately,” Sansa says boldly, trying to gauge his reaction out of the corner of her eye. She hears his sharp intake of breath, thinks she sees some color rush to his cheeks. Good. He is eons away from the bumbling squire she had once known, but she likes to know that she is still able to put him off-balance.

He is quiet for a moment before responding. “As do I.”

They have reached the family tower where her chambers reside, and begin to climb the stairs. “Really?” Sansa questions. “I recall seeing a fair amount of attention showered on you during the feast.”

“It’s not the attention that I’m interested in,” he counters, and she is surprised at his frankness, but when she turns her head to look at him, his cheeks are still red.

“May I ask whose attention you are interested in, then?”

“I’m afraid it is nothing you should spend time worrying about, Your Grace.” He looks at her, his gaze so intense that she forgets to correct his use of her title. She thinks his brown eyes may be disagreeing with the words that come from his mouth.

They reach her bedroom door, and he moves to pull his arm away, but she tightens her grip. “Will you come inside for a moment? I don’t believe I sent anybody to tend my fire, and I fear the weather will be chilly tonight.”

He nods apprehensively. He has been in her study before, spent hours with her in her solar. But he has never been in her bedroom. She is nervous as well. She has not had a man in her room in years, and she has never invited one in on her own terms. But she is sure of her decision as she leads him inside.

He immediately goes to her fire, crouching in front of it and expertly stoking it, concentrating on the flames a little too hard. Sansa follows him, standing only a few feet away, waiting patiently until her fire is roaring. She is not sure what she is doing exactly, but she follows her instincts, follows the strings tugging at her heart. Podrick rights himself, his eyes widening as he turns to find her standing so close.

“Would you like to know whose attention I find myself interested in?” She takes a step closer, enjoying the way his face burns redder than she thinks she may have ever seen it. Surely he cannot be this nervous around all women, she has seen the way they look at him, seen the way he can talk to them so easily. Maybe it is just her who makes him blush. She likes that.

“This is not proper, Your Grace, I cannot…” he stammers.

“Sansa,” she corrects him. “And I cannot bring myself to care about what is proper at the moment.”

One step closer and he is within reach. She places her hands on his armored shoulders. She can only imagine how tense they are underneath the metal plate.

“Please,” he breathes, leaning into her touch even as he protests. “I am only a knight, I cannot do this to you.”

“You are not doing anything to me,” she says, inching closer. She wishes he would forget honor for a moment, and give in to what he wants, as she is. She wants to be kissed. She has never been kissed properly, only by men who want to hurt her, to take advantage of her. Podrick is not one of those men, Sansa doesn’t even need to question that.

He is frozen, his arms hanging by his sides. Slowly, she takes his hands and pulls them towards her, closing the gap between them even further as she places his hands on her waist. He does not fight her on this, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly with want. She is inches away from his face now, staring at him, feeling his breath on her cheeks.

“This is not proper, Your Grace,” he repeats in one last, halfhearted protest.

“Sansa,” she breathes, her mouth tantalizingly close to his own. She is not his queen right now.

That is all it takes, and his grip tightens on her waist, pulling her flush against him as he presses his lips urgently to hers. His lips are soft and full, taking the lead as she follows him easily through the motions that she has never experienced before. She winds her arms around his neck, wanting to be closer, ignoring the way his armor pokes into her chest. She does not know how long she kisses him for, growing more comfortable with each passing moment, one hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, but she pulls back eventually, slowly opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

He is staring at her with an emotion she cannot place, but she feels it expressed in her own eyes as well. “Was that okay?” he asks hesitantly, his large hand pressed flat against her back, holding her close even as he speaks.

Sansa nods emphatically, but she is worried, worried that it was not okay for him. “I’m afraid I do not really know what I am doing when it comes to things like this…” Her voice trails off in embarrassment as she looks away, but he reaches his hand up to cradle the side of her face, turning her eyes back towards him.

“You were perfect,” he says firmly, and she has never had a man look at her this way, hold her this way, speak to her this way.

She leans up on her toes slightly – he is only a little taller than her – and presses a quick, soft kiss to his lips, feeling him smile as she does so. She doesn’t want to let go of him, but she knows she cannot do anything further tonight, and she knows he will understand that.

She feels the loss of his touch like a shock when she steps back from him, her hands running slowly down his chestplate before she pulls them back. Sansa doesn’t know how to tell him that she doesn’t regret this and she won’t regret it in the morning, that she doesn’t want him to leave but she isn’t ready yet. She stares into his eyes, begging him to understand. As he gives her a nod and the kindest smile she has ever seen, she thinks he does.

Podrick grabs her hand, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of her wrist, making her heart leap in her chest, before turning and leaving her room.

***

He is all she thinks about that night, and into the morning, as she bathes herself and gets ready for her day. She is brushing out her long, slightly damp red hair, and across the room one of her ladies, Myranda, is preparing her gown when there is a knock at the door. Sansa’s heart jumps to hear Podrick’s voice asking for entrance. With a small squeal, Myranda rushes to the door and opens it, just a crack, to speak to him.

“Her Grace is currently not fit to be seen,” she informs him. “May I-”

“It’s alright, Myranda,” she interrupts. “It is just Ser Podrick.” Myranda looks at her, eyes wide as saucers as Sansa makes her way over to the door, and opens it further to see Podrick, strong and handsome in his armor, waiting with a scroll clutched in his hand.

He lets out a small gasp, averting his eyes as a lovely pink colors his cheeks. Sansa is wearing just her chemise, and even though it covers her body, fabric reaching all the way to her neck and all the way down her arms, hemline brushing the floor, she stifles a smile as he gives her exactly the reaction she had wanted. “Is that for me?” She points to the scroll.

He clears his throat, thrusting the paper forward. “Yes, yes, it is, Your Grace. My sincere apologies for interrupting like this.”

Sansa reaches a hand out, wanting to touch his arm and reassure him that he is fine, she would not have let him see her like this unless she wanted him to, but he just shoves the paper into her hand and disappears down the stairs.

She retreats back into her room, keeping her expression neutral so that Myranda does not look at her even more questioningly than she already is. When she unfurls the scroll, she is not surprised to see that it is from Arya, informing her of her safe arrival in Storm’s End. A smile plays on Sansa's lips as she reads.

 _I think I will be staying for quite some time,_  her sister writes.

***

Sansa sends for Podrick to escort her to the Godswood. She does not need help getting there, she has walked the path too many times to count, but she wants to walk it with him. He is mostly quiet, only muttering the polite words he has to, avoiding her eyes, but he still offers her arm and walks with her, into the beautiful, dark forest of prayer.

She slows her pace as they reach the center of the forest, where the huge weirwood heart tree resides. This is one of her favorite places in all of Winterfell, and she can almost feel the presence of her mother and father, comforting her.

“Would you like some privacy to pray, Your Grace?” He is still not looking at her.

“No, thank you,” Sansa says, striding over to him. In a moment of bravery, or stupidity, she cannot tell, she reaches out to cup his face in her hand, his stubble rough against her palm as she forces him to meet her eye. “No, privacy is the last thing I want from you.”

His eyes soften sadly as he looks at her. “Sansa, I – I cannot. I am your Queensguard, I am sworn to serve you, and to take no wife. It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“And how is it that you feel?” She can feel her bottom lip jutting out stubbornly, almost petulantly, but she does not care. She has not put on her queenly airs in front of Podrick for a long time.

He says nothing, but his eyes bore into hers, telling her exactly what he cannot say. I love you. She thinks she loves him too. The thought is not a revelation to her, she has known it for some time, even if she didn’t admit it to herself. He has always been by her side, even as far back as King’s Landing, when he would walk with her when her lord husband Tyrion would not, when he would bring her lemon cakes from the kitchen without prompting. He had found her in the woods with Ser Brienne, saving her life, and Theon’s too, before reuniting her with her family. He had been with her ever since, silently protecting her and serving her, and asking for nothing in return. Yes, she loves him.

He leans his face into her hand that is still pressed against his cheek, exhaling softly. “I wish there was a way.”

“I will make a way,” Sansa says, and he looks at her, confused. “I am the Queen. I have served my people as selflessly as I can for years. I think it is time that I use this power I have to take something for myself.”

“Is that wise?” he asks, his eyes brimming with hope.

“It may not be my wisest decision, no. But I cannot bring myself to change my mind,” she says. “I have many other things to focus on, and there are other ways to form alliances than through marriage. I will not marry for anyone but myself ever again.” She looks around her at the Godswood, at her home. Her father’s voice echoes in her ears, telling her that he will find her a man who is worthy of her, a man who is brave and gentle and strong. Sansa thinks she has found him for herself.

Podrick steps towards her, gently encircling her in his strong arms. “I will give up my title if need be, my lady. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“There’s no need for that, Podrick. I shall relieve you of your duties as Queensguard, but you shall remain a knight.” She had seen, years ago, Ser Barristan Selmy relieved from his Kingsguard duties. It had not been a popular decision, she recalls, but this was a far different situation, in a now independent kingdom. She just may be able to make it work. “I shall speak to my advisors and my lords about this. The North has far more powerful resources than my hand in marriage. They are more worried about me producing heirs at all, than they are about who I produce them with.”

A wide smile is splitting his face, his eyes dancing with joy. He does not speak.

“We will not say anything just yet,” Sansa decides. “I will have to arrange the details before we announce it.” Then she cups his face, pulling his lips down towards hers.

***

Sansa does not hesitate to pull him into her room when he escorts her up that night. She has barely closed the door behind them when he pins her up against it, his mouth pressed to hers as his fingers scramble to lock the door. She tugs his hair lightly as he deepens the kiss, parting her lips with his own. There is a warm feeling growing in her belly, and she gasps into his mouth. He pulls back quickly, frowning slightly at her. “Is this okay?”

She nods vigorously, pulling him back down towards her, as his large hands roam over her back and up her sides, his thumb barely brushing the swell of her breast. His armor is cold against her, even through her dress, and she fumbles at the metal, unsure of how to undo it. He pulls back slowly, realizing what she wants, his eyes questioning. She nods at him, and he begins to undo each clasp, pulling off his armor piece by piece as she watches, until he stands in his simple tunic and breeches. He reaches for her face again, but she shakes her head, turning her back to him so he can see the lacing of her dress.

Podrick’s fingers brush the laces hesitantly. “Are you sure, Sansa?”

She makes a sound of assurance. “Please. I – I need you to see me before we…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. She needs him to see all of her, to see her scarred body, to give him the chance to leave if he doesn’t like it. She is covered in scars, some of them from Joffrey, most of them from Ramsay. They are the reason that all of her gowns are long-sleeved and high-necked. She doesn’t want anybody to know how damaged she is, but now she has chosen to bear herself to Podrick.

His fingers are gentle as he tugs at the laces, slowly opening her gown and sliding it down her shoulders, until it pools around her feet on the floor, leaving her only in her chemise once more. He hesitates once more, and she reaches behind her, pulling the tie at her neckline, until his hand covers hers and he undoes the knot himself. Sansa’s breath catches, her heart pounding as her chemise slips off her shoulders, her last line of defense gone. She can feel his eyes tracing her bare back, studying the scars that cover her, from the shiny pale white lines from the tip of a knife to the thick, puckered burns, marking her traumas on her skin.

He says nothing, does not even touch her, and she feels her walls building back up, protecting her. He is disgusted by her, as he should be. She is about to turn, about to push him away, when she feels his lips gently brush her shoulder blade, running along a particularly long scar that she still remembers well. His hands rest on her waist, light as feathers, as he kisses each scar, traces them with his mouth, worshipping her as if she is a masterpiece. Along her back, her arms, her stomach, her chest. Erasing the memories of the origins of each scar, replacing them with these moments of gentle adoration. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his mouth finally returning to hers as she pulls him backwards onto her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aghhhh i just think podrick is as much of a secret romantic as sansa, if not more. they are my #1 got crackship and this got way longer than i intended, whoops! just want my girl to be happy :)
> 
> sidenote: i cut this one pretty short - gotta gear up for arya and gendry later


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to storm's end, sorry its a lil short :)

Arya sees the girl almost immediately as she walks into the courtyard of Storm’s End. She is a skinny young thing, perhaps seven or eight years old, with tangled, dirty blonde hair, wearing a simple dress with a mud-stained hem. Arya pauses, watching the girl as she brandishes a broken broomstick handle, attacking a bale of hay next to the stables with fierce whacks. Every so often, the girl will stop and look at the knights sparring across the yard, studying their movements, before turning back to her bale of hay and continuing her battle.

Arya makes her way over. “You’re quite good at that,” she remarks. 

The girl spins to look at her, a defiant look in her eyes. “Who are you?”

“My name is Arya. What’s yours?”

The girl stares at her, as if determining if she is a threat. “Mya,” she says finally. “My father works in the stables.” 

Arya smiles. “Did he teach you how to use that thing?” She points at the broom handle.

“No.” Mya’s chin juts out proudly. “I taught myself. I watch those knights, there, and then I do what they do.”

“That’s smart.” Something about this girl is far too endearing to Arya.

“I want to use a real one someday,” Mya says. “I want to be a knight, but my brother says girls can’t be knights.”

Arya frowns, wishing she had Needle with her to show to the girl. “That’s not true. One of the greatest knights I know is a girl. Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

The girl’s face brightens. “Really? Oh, I have to tell my brother!” She pauses for a moment, taking in Arya’s breeches. “You’re dressed like a man. Are you a knight?”

“Not quite,” Arya says. “I’m a fighter, though.”

“Do you want to fight me?” Mya scrambles around the bale of hay, producing another broomstick handle and offering it to Arya. She laughs, and takes it from the girl, sliding easily into her fighting stance. Mya’s eyes are curious as she mimics Arya’s position, before swinging her broomstick wildly at her. Arya parries her blows gently, not wanting to go too hard on her, dancing back and forth for a while, before she knocks the girl into the mud. 

Mya springs back up, her eyes blazing with excitement. “How did you do that? Show me!”

Arya grins as she repeats the move. Mya studies her intently, before coming to stand by Arya’s side, copying her movements. Arya repositions the girl’s feet, and rearranges her fingers around her broom handle, offering bits of advice – wait a little longer before driving forward, don’t lean too far into the swing - until Mya has almost perfected it.

“You’re good.” Mya declares, panting slightly as she pushes her hair out of her eyes. “What else do you know?” 

Arya opens her mouth to respond, but she is interrupted by a man running out of the stables. “Mya, where are your manners? This is Lady Stark! I apologize greatly, milady.” Mya’s father, no doubt.

The girl gapes at her. “You don’t look like a lady!”

“I don’t usually consider myself to be one,” Arya says, before turning to the father. “There’s nothing to apologize for. She did nothing wrong, I assure you.”

The father looks at her warily, before bowing his head and thanking her. He turns back to the stables, beckoning his daughter after him. Mya looks at Arya with wide eyes. Arya winks at her and leans down to whisper conspiratorially. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I have a lot more moves than just that.”

Mya grins as her father tugs her away.

***

Arya shows up the next day, bearing two wooden swords that she had nicked from the armory. Mya is sitting patiently on a bale of hay and bounces to her feet when she sees Arya. “You came back! Oh, what is that? Is that for me?”

She grabs for the wooden sword, immediately brandishing it like a madwoman. “Careful!” Arya laughs, dodging a blow.

“This in incredible!” Mya says. “Teach me how to use it! Please!”

“What do you think I’m here for?” Arya holds out her own wooden sword. She starts by showing the proper grip, the proper foot placement, the proper way of holding one’s body. Mya is an attentive listener, and eager to try everything, catching on impressively quickly.

Arya begins to meet her in the courtyard almost every day, always arriving with two wooden swords in hand. This goes on for a week, until one day Mya is waiting for her with a young boy as well. “This is my brother, Tom,” she announces. “He didn’t believe me when I told him you were teaching me how to fight so I brought him.”

“Do you want to fight too?” Arya asks the boy. He looks at her for a moment before nodding, and she hands each of them a wooden sword. He looks thrilled, and his sister nudges his shoulder, an “I told you so!” look written on her face. Arya trains with both of them, a secret happiness growing in her stomach as she watches Mya attempt a move that had been impossible to her only days before, as Tom waves his sword wildly around and his sister corrects his grip bossily.

She doesn’t know exactly how Mya continues to find more children to train with, but the next week she shows up with two girls from the kitchens, and a few days later she drags the stableboy, who had always watched them with curious eyes, to join them. Before long, Arya realizes she is teaching a whole group of children how to properly hold a sword, watching as they shriek with laughter as they spar, then furrow their little brows as they concentrate on a certain move.

One day she looks across the courtyard to see Gendry watching her, a small smile playing on his lips. She lifts a hand to wave at him, only for his smile to turn into loud laughter as Mya takes advantage of this distraction, and thumps her wooden sword into Arya’s stomach as hard as she can. Arya doubles over, wheezing, as Mya stands proudly in front of her. “You said to never get distracted, because that’s when your opponent can get you.” 

“That I did,” Arya says, clutching her stomach. “Excellent hit.”

She wraps the training up a few minutes later, her stomach still aching as she makes her way across the yard to Gendry.

“I heard you were training a small army and I had to come see it for myself,” he says, laughter still dancing in his blue eyes.

“Yes,” she groans. “I’m afraid they’ve gotten too strong for me. It’s only a matter of time until I’m overthrown.” 

“Those children seem to love it,” he remarks, suddenly serious. “You should speak to the Master of Arms about making this an official training opportunity. I’m sure he would be happy to provide you with time in the sparring yard, and plenty of those vicious wooden swords.”

Arya rubs her abdomen, thinking about what he has said. She had never truly considered this to be anything more than a casual activity, but he may be right. She’s enjoyed her time training the children of Storm’s End far more than she has enjoyed most things in her life. Why should she not put more time and energy into it? “I like that idea."

***

Arya works with the children almost daily, her sessions far more structured now that she has a training yard and an endless supply of wooden weapons to use. To her delight, the group of children, though it is always growing, is largely made up of young girls. Even some of the noble children have showed up, seeming to prefer her to their private masters. She can see herself in the young girls as they brandish their swords fiercely, sparring with, and often winning against, their male counterparts. One day, a girl asks her offhandedly about archery, and soon she is teaching them all how to properly use a bow and arrow. She feels an unexpected pride swell in her chest every time one of her students lands a successful blow while sparring, or hits the target with an arrow. She could get used to this.

Gendry finds her one evening, while she is cleaning up after a lesson. He immediately begins to help, picking up the wooden swords that the children have left scattered around the yard. She has barely seen him in the past few weeks. He has been busy with his duties as lord, and she has found herself with much less free time than before. She has only truly spent time with him at meals, and even then they have not been alone, both of them stubbornly pretending that nothing had happened between them as they are surrounded by various lords and ladies.

They are alone now, though, as they silently work together to clean up. “This is going well,” he says. “Who would’ve thought, Arya Stark, Master of Arms.”

She scoffs at him. “Please. You already have one of those, and I’m not keen to take his job.”

“Why not?” He shrugs simply. “You’re good at it.” 

“I’ll stick with the children, I think,” Arya says, wrinkling her nose. “I do not think there is much that I could teach a knight.”

“Very well,” he hums, gathering the last of the equipment as they walk towards the armory together to put it away. “I think you should know, though, these children will be very upset if you ever decide to stop these lessons.”

She frowns at him, confused. “I wasn’t planning on stopping them any time soon.”

There is a small smile on his face as they return the equipment to the shelves in a moment of silence. “So you're planning on staying, then?” he finally asks. 

Oh. She hadn’t even thought about it, really. It had seemed like such an absolute in her mind, she hadn’t considered that it might not be in his. She chooses her words carefully as they walk towards the castle doors. “I have been here for over a month now, Gendry. I have made myself right at home. If it is alright with my lord, I think it is clear I plan on staying.” She says this casually, ignoring the hammering of her heart as she puts herself out there.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says quietly, calming her heart with his words. When she looks over at him, a pleased expression has settled over his features. 

She bumps his shoulder with her own. “You really have no faith in me, do you? I said I wasn’t going to leave you again.” 

He nudges her back. “I’ve always had faith in you. It’s just nice to get a confirmation.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters under her breath, and he laughs. 

He slows his pace as they near the entrance to his Lord’s Tower, running a hand through his dark hair. “I'm taking a private supper in my tower. If you haven’t eaten yet…”

Her mind races, remembering the last time they had been alone in his tower, her heart picking up speed at the memory of his gentle touch. This is dangerous, she knows. 

She says yes anyway.

***

Their conversation as they eat is easy, touching lightly on different topics as they joke about everything. She tells him about Sansa, and how she thinks her sister may propose marriage to Ser Podrick Payne soon. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline at this, but he does not laugh, and even gives a nod of approval after she explains the situation. He tells her why he has been so busy lately, as his advisors have begun to train him in understanding the household finances, how to read the numbers and make appropriate cuts. He hates it. 

When they have finished eating, he goes to his desk to work on the aforementioned numbers, and she settles on his couch in front of the fire, not bothering to ask if he minds if she stays. She knows he doesn’t. Arya stretches herself out on the cushions, closing her eyes as she enjoys the warmth radiating from the fire.

Her relaxation is interrupted by increasingly frustrated groans from Gendry, until eventually he slams his fist into the desk in exasperation. Arya gets up, far too curious to leave it alone, and walks over to him, peering over his shoulder. She has seen numbers like this before. Years ago, as she had bothered her parents while they worked over the books of account, and then more recently, with Sansa at Winterfell. Sansa had never been good with figures, not like Arya was, and though she had gotten better, Arya had still had to help her several times. She could help Gendry now.

She leans over his shoulder and plucks the quill from his fist. “Here, just let me.” She works quickly, her right hand leaning on the desk as her left hand moves along the rows and columns of endless numbers with ease. After a few minutes of observing her, Gendry slides from the desk chair, gently pushing her shoulders down so she can sit in it. He goes over to the table and pulls another chair over to the desk, sitting next to her.

“I don’t know how you're doing that,” he says. She hums, only half listening as she focuses on the numbers, adding together expenses, marking down where cuts can be made.

“Why are they making you learn this?” She asks as she finishes up, closing the large book of account. “Surely they have had somebody in charge of this all these past years?”

“They have,” Gendry mutters darkly. “But I suppose that it’s necessary for a lord to be able to add together two numbers. So far I have disappointed them greatly in that aspect.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not the deciding factor of what makes a lord. Tell them to stop bothering you with this. Or, better yet, tell them that I will handle any numbers they want to throw your way. I’m sure I’m better than whoever they have running things right now.”

He looks at her with something like incredulity, the teasing smile that she loves breaking across his face. “What would I do without you?”

Arya snorts, giving him a small shove. “You wouldn’t be here right now without me.”

“I can say the same to you,” he counters. He is not wrong. They had always worked as one when they were children, saving each other’s lives countless times. The stakes are far lower now, she thinks with amusement, but they are still falling into the same patterns. It isn’t that they depend on each other, no. They complement each other. His knee knocks into hers gently as they sit at his desk, the small contact sending shockwaves through her body.

She thinks they may work well together here, ruling Storm’s End as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's so so sO important to me that gendry isn't the only thing arya loves about storm's end if she decides to live there. as much as she loves him, idk if she could stay somewhere she doesn't love just for him. but she is definitely finding a purpose now :)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's long!! and no spoilers but just a lil reminder of the nsfw/mature warning!! we all knew it was coming :)

“Thank you, Lady Baratheon.” The assistant cook bows her head slightly at Arya, then scurries back into the kitchens, leaving Arya standing in the hallway, her mind racing in shock. Surely that was just a slip of the tongue. She is not – they have not – there is no way that the people think…

Arya rouses her body from its frozen position, making her way down the corridor. The words echo over and over in her head. Lady Baratheon. She tries not to let her mind run away with the words. She is a highborn lady, who has been a guest of the Lord of Storm’s End for weeks now, and she should not be surprised that some of the household, who are not well-versed in the world of nobility, may assume that she has married their lord. Right? She turns a corner swiftly, unsure of where her feet are taking her.

Besides, she reasons, she has taken up an active role in the castle life since coming here. She still trains the castle children in swordsmanship and archery, and she does so in the courtyard, where everyone can see her. It only makes sense that the household members may begin to view her as one of the Baratheons of Storm’s End as well.

There is nothing to get upset over, she reassures herself as her heart pounds heavily to the contrary. She makes her way down a staircase. She had only been in the kitchens today as a favor to Gendry, anyway, who had been so busy that he had not realized that there was a problem with the food inventory. Arya had noticed it the night before, and so she had taken it upon herself to make her way to the kitchens and consult the records with the cook, easily fixing any errors in the logs and making note of the supplies they would need in the future. She is good with figures, and doesn’t see why she shouldn’t make herself useful, especially considering the amount of discrepancies she had found in the numbers, no doubt from the hands of whichever advisor had been attempting to keep up with the books for the past few years.

It had become routine for her to find her way up to Gendry’s solar in the evening. They would sit, side by side, at his desk, as he worked his way through letters and petitions, asking her opinion every so often. She didn’t know much about the diplomacy aspect of being a lord – he had much more of a natural affinity for it – but she would help when she could, trying to figure out what her parents or Sansa would do in the situation. Next to him, she would work through his books of account, fixing any mistakes, like the one she had done today, and pointing out small anomalies, ruminating to him about how they could remedy them. It is a fairly small thing that she does for him, and does not mind doing for him, especially since it allows him to stop having to consult his advisors for everything – he trusts them, she knows, but he does not particularly like them.

He often had food sent up to them as they would work, and they would take a break to eat together. She supposes that these private meals may have been the root of the rumors in the kitchens that had led to the assistant cook calling her Lady Baratheon today. But she is not bothered by them, she truly is not, she repeats to herself, it is just talk among the household staff. Yet her stomach is in knots as she finds herself at the entrance to the forge.

Gendry is unable to work here as often as he used to, and if it were up to his advisors, the Lord of Storm’s End would never set foot in his forge. But Gendry is stubborn, and she can hear the unmistakable sound of him hard at work, the ring of steel echoing around the forge as she enters.

He is alone, near the back of the forge, wearing naught but a thin shirt and breeches. He has not noticed her yet, and she takes her time appreciating the way the fabric, slick with sweat from the sweltering heat of the fire, clings to his muscled arms and chest. His hair is tousled, and she watches as he lifts a hand to wipe perspiration from his brow, leaving a dark smudge on the side of his face.

He finally looks up, and grins when he sees her. “Enjoying the show?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping over a discarded hammer as she crosses the room towards it. “It’s certainly not anything I would pay to see. You just seem to be putting it on for free today.” She boosts herself onto a table a few feet away from him, her feet swinging several inches above the ground.

He starts to place his tools down. “Well, then, if the audience is having such a bad time…” He leans against a column, his arms crossed as he waits for her to speak.

“What are you making?” Arya tries to decipher his half-forged creation, to no avail.

“A helmet,” he says. “Do you remember the helmet I had when we were kids?”

“Of course!” she scoffs. As if she could forget. “We called you the Bull.”

“We called you Arry,” he says. And then, with a smirk. “Lumpyhead, too.”

Arya aims a kick at him, but he is expecting it and lightly steps aside. “It’s another bull helmet?”

“Not quite.” Gendry looks down at his feet, almost embarrassed. “It was going to be, but then I thought that maybe, instead of horns, I could do antlers.”

“A stag helm,” Arya nods. “Like your father’s.”

He nods. “I know I never knew him. He never claimed me, never helped my mother raise me, and I almost died because of him. He wasn’t exactly a good man. I know it’s stupid, but I just--”

“Gendry.” Her voice is firm but soft. “Stop. You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” When he doesn’t say anything, she continues. “Besides, I’ve met your father, remember? I’m positive you will wear the helm far better than he ever did.” He will be a far better ruler than his father ever was, too. And he will treat his children far better than his father ever did.

“If I can ever finish the bloody thing,” he grunts. “Antlers are much harder than horns.”

“Who would’ve thought?” She is joking with him, but it is half-hearted. She cannot shake the thought of her conversation in the kitchens from her head. Lady Baratheon. She wants to talk to him about it, because he is who she wants to talk about everything with, but she doesn’t know if she can. Her legs swing back and forth in agitation.

“What’s wrong?” Gendry is looking at her curiously, brow slightly furrowed.

“Nothing!” Arya says, her voice rising far too quickly. He just looks at her, unbothered by her hostile tone, and unconvinced of her dismissal. “It’s nothing to worry yourself over, I mean,” Arya hears her voice say. Why is she still talking? “I was just in the kitchens earlier and one of the cooks called me Lady…” She trails off.

He lets out a small laugh. “Arya, I can promise I won’t call you my lady anymore, but I can’t defend your honor against every other person who does so. I'd be dead within the week.”

She tries to share his laughter, but her throat is dry. “No, I mean – it’s not – she didn’t just call me a lady.” The words are spilling out of her, jumbled and sloppy, but she cannot stop them. “She called me Lady Baratheon.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “And that – you’re upset about that?”

“No, I’m not upset, not exactly.” Arya struggles to find her words. Her chest is tight. “It’s just that I’m not. I’m not Lady Baratheon.”

“I know that,” he says. His voice is careful, guarded. “The people know that. I’m sure it was an accident.”

Arya doesn’t understand why he is so calm about this. It has been invading her mind since it happened, it is all she can think about. It is driving her mad. “So you just don’t care?” Her tone is far more accusatory than she means it to be.

“What?” He is taken aback. “What am I supposed to be caring about?”

“You’re supposed to care that – you’re supposed to notice that I have been running the castle with you, that I have been teaching the children who live here. You’re supposed to care that I have been playing the role of the Lady of Storm's End for weeks now!” It’s not a role anymore, not really, she thinks.

“Arya, I didn’t ask you to do that!” He takes a step closer to where she is still perched on the table, his eyes flashing with frustration.

“I know you didn’t!” He doesn’t understand, and she needs him to. “I chose to! I – I wanted to!”

“You told me you didn’t want to be a lady.” His voice is laced with desperation.

“I did,” Arya says firmly. “I did say that years ago.”

“And what are you saying now?”

She doesn’t know, not exactly. She had never been a typical lady and had never wanted to be. She still does not want to be. But here in Storm’s End, she has become a type of lady she never knew existed. She didn’t realize it until now, but this, this is a life she can see herself living. With him.

How is she supposed to put that into words? She doesn’t know if she can.

He is still standing in front of her, closer than she had realized, waiting for a response that she is unable to utter. Arya leans forward, grabbing his shirt collar roughly and yanking him towards her, her lips crashing onto his. He is shocked for only a moment before he fiercely reciprocates the kiss, lips moving easily with hers. He steps forward, his hands flying down to grip her hips and press her closer to him as he stands between her legs. It feels so blissfully right to kiss him again, Arya thinks, lifting her hands to encircle his neck. But his body stiffens after only a few moments, and he pulls back far too soon, releasing her as he stumbles backward.

“Arya, I – I can’t.” His eyes are wounded, filled with something like regret. “I can’t do this, not again. Not if…”

Not if she is going to leave him again. I won’t, she wants to yell at him. How many times must she prove it? She is here to stay with him, no matter what happens. She pushes herself off the table, crossing to where he stands a few feet away.

Gendry is still as she reaches her hands up to cradle his face softly. “I promise you,” Arya says, her voice barely a whisper. “I am yours.”

He shakes his head, tearing his gaze away from hers. “You're not mine. You don’t belong to me. You don’t belong to anyone but yourself, Arya.”

“That’s true.” She pulls his face back towards her, forcing him to look into her eyes, to see what she is trying to tell him. “But I belong _with_ you.”

His breathing is shallow as she pushes herself onto her toes to gently brush her lips against his, his stubble rough against her hands. The kiss is soft, innocent even, for a moment, before he finally wraps his arms around her waist, nearly lifting her off her feet as he deepens the kiss.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs into her mouth.

Arya groans in frustration and places her hands on his chest, shoving him backwards into a column, before attacking his lips with her own again, forcing them open, her hands running through his thick hair as she presses him against the stone. That should be answer enough for him. She tugs at his dark locks with one hand, savoring the small moan it elicits from his throat, and reaches her other hand down to tug upwards at the hem of his shirt. Gendry laughs, still not breaking the kiss as he pulls her wandering fingers away. “Not here,” he breathes.

“Then where?” Arya moves her mouth to his jaw, tracing along the hard line with her lips.

“If we go through the back exit of the forge – it goes to a hallway–-" He inhales sharply as she nips at his earlobe. “It’s always empty, and leads right to my-–"

Arya pulls back, a smirk dancing across her face as she interrupts him. “To your chambers?”

He nods, his face flushed, his fingers digging almost painfully into her hips. “Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing you haven’t seen already.”

She hasn’t seen all of his quarters, though, Arya thinks. She has not been in his bedchambers yet. She pushes herself forward to kiss him one last time before she allows him to tug her towards the exit and out of the forge. The corridor is empty, as he had claimed, and they only make it a few steps before he pushes her into an alcove, pinning her body against the wall as he recaptures her lips, his hands roaming up and down her sides.

She bites at his lip, and he groans into her mouth. “That wasn’t very lordly,” she gasps, as his hands slide down to grip her backside.

“I don’t care.” He pulls her even tighter against him, his thigh digging in between her legs.

A warmth is building in her stomach, and Arya breaks her mouth away from his reluctantly. “We can’t – not here. If somebody walks by…”

Gendry nods, stepping away from her begrudgingly, his eyes dark with want. “Come on, then.” He grabs her waist with one arm, pulling her along beside him as he makes his way towards the back staircase that leads to his Lord’s Tower with quick steps. She runs her hands over his arm, his shoulders, his neck, as they walk, feeling him shiver beneath her. “You’re driving me crazy,” he groans as she threads her fingers into his hair.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Arya inhales sharply as his hand makes its way under the hem of her tunic in response, her bare skin burning as his calloused fingers brush against her stomach.

They reach his solar, finally, and he has barely closed and locked the door behind them when she grabs his shoulders, spinning him around as she throws him onto the waiting couch. He looks up at her as she straddles him, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She leans down slowly, wanting to savor this moment, her hands resting on his chest, as she kisses him. She can feel him smiling against her lips as his hands tug lightly at the hem of her tunic, pushing it up before drifting underneath to press roughly against the small of her back.

Arya feels her desire growing, feels him hard beneath her, and she grinds her hips into his. He moans into her mouth in response, his grip tightening at her waist. This is good, this is perfect, but she needs more.

A small whine escapes Gendry’s lips as she pulls back and climbs off of him, but he sits up slightly and watches appreciatively as she kicks off her boots, beginning to undress. When she is in only her smallclothes, he reaches for her, but she dodges his hand, grinning, and starts toward the door that she knows leads to his bedchambers. He laughs behind her, as she tosses a “Coming?” over her shoulder.

His room is spacious but largely empty, furnished only with a large bed and dresser. A thick carpet is soft under her bare feet, and the fireplace on the left wall is dark, the only light coming in from the window. Gendry enters soon after her, his arms wrapping around her from behind as he trails a series of kisses down the side of her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

“You’re still dressed,” Arya complains, giving him no time to respond before she turns to him and yanks his shirt over his head. She admires his naked torso, the strong muscles rippling beneath his skin, the scars, nowhere near as many as hers, that seem to glow white in the dimly lit room. She can see him straining against his breeches, and reaches her hands down to the laces, but he catches them.

“You first.” A lazy smirk crosses his face as he reaches for her smallclothes. His large hands are gentle as he makes easy work of the thin fabric, leaving her bare in front of him. She sees the same concern that had flashed in his eyes so many years ago as he takes in the scars covering her arms and legs, his gaze lingering on the especially ragged ones slashed across her stomach. Now is not the time to worry about this, she thinks in annoyance, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close once more, her breasts pressing into his bare chest as she connects their lips once more. She will tell him of her scars later, and he can tell her of his. Right now, she needs him.

His hands move to the back of her head, and it takes her a moment to realize that they are pulling at her hair, releasing it from its bun. He is nowhere near as gentle as he had been last time, tugging at her locks urgently, but he lets out a pleased hum against her lips as her hair unfurls down her back. He runs his hand up her sides, and Arya bites his bottom lip, hard, as his hands find her breasts, his thumbs rubbing far too briefly over her nipples.

Gendry pulls his lips from hers, his mouth moving along her jaw and down her neck, kissing her skin harshly enough that she knows there will still be marks there tomorrow. He reaches her collarbone and sucks hard, drawing a gasp from her lips, before finally leading her to his bed. He pushes her onto the mattress, and she barely notices how luxurious it is, far too distracted as he pulls his pants off before he joins her.

He props his body halfway over hers as she grabs his neck to pull him in for a kiss, entangling his legs with her own. His rough hands are exploring her body, grabbing at her breasts, her waist, her backside, everywhere, until one of them dips between her legs and she lets out a moan. He is grinning as he starts to kiss down her body again, this time continuing past her collarbone, his mouth worshipping her breasts as his hand continues to move between her legs.

He takes his time, his mouth pressing to her stomach, tracing her scars, moving to her thighs, until finally, finally, he kisses her there. A wave of pleasure rolls through her body as he tastes her, and she tugs at his hair, hooking her legs around his shoulders, wanting him as close as possible. He stops too soon, right before she peaks, and she whines, trying unsuccessfully to drag him back with her legs.

Gendry is looking down at her, a smile playing on his face, as he slowly moves back up to kiss her lips again. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Arya whispers into his mouth. And then, before she can stop herself, “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and she feels her stomach clench, waiting for his response. “I love you too,” he says finally, his hand cradling her cheek. “You know that.”

She pulls him down for a kiss, deeper and more urgent than any of the ones before. His hardness presses into her thigh, and she reaches down to guide him towards her, her breath hitching in anticipation. His mouth is sweet on hers, his calloused hands roaming her body with a touch that is somehow rough and soft at the same time, and he moves in her. She loves him.

***

She rests contently with her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her as she idly traces her fingers over his broad chest. Her dark hair is splayed out beneath her, and his fingers run through it absentmindedly, neither of them speaking for some time.

“I can’t marry you right now,” Arya says suddenly, feeling him tense slightly beneath her. He says nothing as she continues. “I mean, I can in the future. But I’m not ready yet.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh, his chest rumbling beneath her head. “Do you think I have a wedding dress hanging in my wardrobe? Just waiting for you, so I can force you down the aisle tomorrow?” He snorts. “I know that you don’t want to get married right away, Arya.”

She turns over to look at him, propping her chin up. “I don’t know when I will be ready.”

“That’s alright.”

“It might not be for at least another year.”

“Fine with me.” Gendry’s gaze is steady.

“I’m not going to change my mind, though. It will happen eventually.”

“I know,” he says simply. A warm feeling spreads in her chest.

She can’t stop herself from speaking. “And I won’t take the Baratheon name.”

His hand pauses in her hair as he looks at her, questioning.

“I will always be a Stark,” she says firmly. He does not fight her on this, just nods, his eyes distant as he thinks. It is not unheard of, after all, for a highborn woman to keep her family name after marriage. “If,” she starts, gathering her courage. “If we have children, they would be Baratheons, though.”

His eyes snap to hers, startled. His hand moves to her bare stomach, tracing the mess of scars there, begging an unspoken question.

“I still bleed once a month,” Arya confirms. “I am able to bear a child. If I want to.”

“That’s good,” he stutters, still shocked. "I mean, it is good if that's what you want." He had never known if she wanted children, had never asked her. She is still not sure of the answer herself. He wants children eventually, she knows, but it is not something he ever would, or ever could, force upon her. This is her decision.

“Not for many years.” She looks at him hesitantly, half expecting him to grow tired of her insistence on waiting, but he is smiling at her, silently telling her that he is okay with that. She had never imagined that she could have this. She had never expected to be with a man who she loves, a man who loves her, had never even considered that a happy, unarranged marriage would be an option. The idea of choosing to have children on her own time had been laughable. But, somehow, she is here with him now. Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was good! i know that a lot of the writing thus far has been choppy and not super quality (i really have mostly just been writing this for myself haha) but i spent more time on this one, tryna get it right. hope you liked! :)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait!! i struggled with this one, and it still somehow turned out super short but i hope you enjoy :)

_Arya,_

_I am writing to inform you of a small update in my life. As of right now, it is meant to be kept wholly secret, but I could not keep it from you. I am sure that you do not need me to tell you who the man is when I say that I have entered into a betrothal. It is as official as can be, but it is not to be common knowledge among all people._

_At the time of writing this, I have told my advisors and several of my Northern lords. They were not entirely pleased – my betrothed is a Southerner by birth, a distant, far lower born cousin of the man who swung the sword that removed our father’s head, a sworn member of the Queensguard, and not likely to bring any alliances or advantages to the North through marriage. However, I am deeply in love with him, and have told them so, and I will marry him with or without their support. Luckily, after being reminded of the years of service and protection he has given me, as well as my many, many accomplishments and victories as their Queen, they seem to have remembered that I have done everything I can, and then far more, for the North and my people, and they have acquiesced this one thing to me. He has more than proven himself to be a good and honorable man, and they have been promised that any and all heirs produced will take the Stark name. This seems to relieve their old hearts greatly._

_My dear betrothed was greatly distressed by the initial resistance, and tried no less than ten times to end our betrothal in a panic, insisting that he was not good enough to be the man that I marry. I was able to calm these ridiculous fears, but when one of my advisors breached the topic of Kingship to him, his eyes leaped out of his head and he nearly jumped upon a horse and rode away from Winterfell right then and there. I have assured him that it will not be necessary for him to style himself the King in the North, as the North already has a Queen – he shall simply be her knight husband. I’m afraid I have become as stubborn as you these days._

_Anyway, despite all this, I find myself far happier than I had ever dared to hope for. I had once promised myself that I would never again be forced into a loveless marriage, and I was able to keep that promise. I hope that when I receive your response, I will read of nothing but your own happiness, my sister._

_On the topic of my upcoming marriage, I have only just begun to make plans – this wedding is not to happen very soon. I have written to Jon beyond the wall to inform him of this as well, and as I have not had an angry, confused man show up at my gates, waving an overprotective fist around, I feel confident in assuming he has not received the letter yet. It is important to me that you are here for my wedding, as well as Bran, and I need Jon to walk me down the aisle. So, there shall be no wedding until I can be sure that all of my family will be there. I only ask that you keep all of this information under wraps until I have heard back from Jon, and then I shall start to plan this event more diligently. Of course, I do not ask you to keep this from your Lord Baratheon. In fact, if I know you truly, he has been reading this letter over your shoulder this whole time, and will read that statement for the first time along with you. I hope he shall accompany you in attendance when I do get married. I think Jon may combust at that._

_I do wish to hear of how you have been faring in the Stormlands and hope that you will oblige me._

_Your sister,_

_Sansa._

Arya lets the letter roll back up into a scroll, a smile splitting her face as she looks at Gendry, who, true to Sansa’s guess, had read the letter alongside her, the two of them sitting at his desk. “She’s too smart,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

“The poor North,” Arya laughs. “Cursed with an intelligent, competent ruler.”

He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Little Podrick Payne, marrying a queen. I can’t even imagine the shock of the Northern lords.”

“Little? I’m fairly sure he is just as big as you are, if not bigger.” Arya pokes him in the shoulder as he rolls his eyes, ignoring her jab.

“She seems very happy,” Gendry says. “From what I read in the letter, I mean. I didn’t know her well when we were in Winterfell.”

“Oh, she is.” Arya smiles at the thought of her sister’s happiness. A thought strikes her. “Do you think that – I mean, the Northern lords were upset at first – do you think your Storm lords will be happy at the prospect of…?” She trails off, but he knows what she is referring to.

He looks as if he is going to laugh at her. “Arya, you are a princess of both the North and the South. Your contributions to the Citadel have improved the knowledge of the world outside Westeros tenfold. And what is it that they call you? The Hero of Winterfell? No, the Bringer of the Dawn, is it?” She shoves his shoulder in embarrassment at his mention of her stupid, heroic titles. “I don’t think that my lords could find an issue in our match if they tried. In fact, I think they would be far more worried about my eligibility to you.”

Arya snorts, ducking her head slightly. “Well, I may not have to worry, then, but you will have to go through Jon.”

“I think I can manage him.” A smile plays on his lips as he quickly kisses her. “It’s not as if he’s ridden a dragon.”

***

Arya wonders how long they will keep their relationship a secret. It isn’t romantic, as Sansa might have said once, to sneak around as they are. It’s just frustrating. She can’t touch him or joke with him as she wishes when they are around other people, and even when they find themselves finally alone, in his chambers for the night, the fact that she must sneak out of his room before the sun rises is always in the back of her mind.

She finally says as much to him one night, as they lie in his bed. His hands are running through her hair – they always are, he loves her hair – as he listens.

“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know.” His voice is amused when he finally responds. “I was under the impression that our marriage was not to happen in the near future.”

“It’s not,” Arya confirms. “But I’m tired of pretending we are not together.”

“It wouldn’t be proper to reveal to the world that we are laying together,” Gendry muses, his brows drawn tight across his face. “I think my advisors may pitch a fit. Many still have hopes of a betrothal to some Southern lady.”

“We aren’t just _laying_ together, though,” Arya retorts. “You could tell them that – well, that we are planning to _be_ together.”

“Are you proposing that we announce a betrothal?” Gendry’s voice is almost incredulous as she looks up to meet his eyes.

“No! I just mean, we could tell your lords and advisors that I plan on staying here. And being with you. Until I’m ready to marry you.”

“But it’s not a betrothal,” he says, eyes dancing with amusement. “Just a promise of future marriage, that’s all.”

“Yes.” Arya sticks her lip out stubbornly, knowing that it sounds a little ridiculous. “That’s all.”

“Alright, then,” Gendry concedes. “I’ll tell them. Perhaps they can finally stop serving eligible ladies to me on a platter.”

“Finally,” Arya grumbles.

“Jealous?” Gendry pinches at her waist, and she kicks him.

“Never. Just seems like a waste of time and resources, that’s all.” Arya squeaks as one of his hands tickles her side, and flips over to wrestle him in his bed.

***

“Are you gonna marry him?” Mya asks one day during training, flipping her hair out of her face as Arya barely dodges a hit from her sword. She has promoted Mya from wooden swords to a small metal weapon with blunted edges, and the girl has continued to prove herself dangerous.

“Who?” Arya presses forward with a blunted sword of her own, knocking Mya’s weapon from her small hands.

Mya snorts at her. “The lord.” She gestures upwards, and Arya looks to see Gendry watching them from the ramparts, his face crinkled in a fond smile. He lifts a hand in greeting when she meets his eye, and Arya has to stop herself from sending a rude gesture his way – she is still surrounded by her young students.

“Who told you that?” Arya waves her sword towards Mya’s fallen one, and the girl picks it up with a sigh, sliding into her fighting stance once more.

“Lots of people.” Mya swings her weapon, starting up the spar again. “They say that you and the lord are—” The swords clash loudly, cutting her off, much to Arya’s relief.

Arya holds her free hand up, pausing the fight. “That’s not – we aren’t – that’s very inappropriate, Mya.”

Mya opens her mouth, about to fire back at Arya, but then her eyes widen, and she falls silent. Arya realizes far too late that Gendry has come up behind her, and all of the children surrounding them have stopped practicing in the presence of their lord.

“Don’t mind him.” Arya waves her hand at them. “Please, keep working on your moves.”

The noises start up slowly, the dull clash of wooden swords and the deep thunk of arrows into targets, as Arya spins to face Gendry. He smiles at her, and then at Mya, who is still standing with them, having lost her sparring partner.

“Milord,” the girl says, bowing her head slightly as she curtsies clumsily. She is a graceful whirlwind with a weapon in her hand, but she seems uncomfortable with these formalities. For maybe the hundredth time, Arya sees a ghost of herself in the young girl.

“This is Mya,” Arya says. “My very first pupil.” She has told Gendry of the girl countless times and can see the recognition flash in his eyes at her name, but this is the first time he has met her. Arya finds herself unexpectedly nervous, wanting desperately for the girl to like him.

“You’re good,” Gendry says to Mya. “I saw you giving Arya quite a run for her money.”

“Thank you, milord.” Mya’s grin is proud. “She’s taught me all my moves, though, so it’s hard to get one over on her.”

“Ah,” Gendry nods. “Well, I’m sure I could help you with that. I know a few different moves that she won’t see coming.”

Mya bounces on her feet, any semblance of the deference she had shown earlier long gone. “Oh, please!”

Arya grumbles as she hands her practice sword to Gendry. “Are you stealing my dearest student from me, right in front of my face?”

“Not stealing,” he smirks. “Just borrowing. Somebody has to help these kids get a leg up against you.”

Arya watches as he turns back to Mya, the two of them smiling far too conspiratorially. His fighting style is different than hers, based in using his strength, but he still begins to teach the girl, and Arya’s heart swells at the look on Mya’s face as she copies Gendry’s movements. Mya’s brother drifts over a few minutes later, followed by the young stable boy, and Gendry takes them in stride. Arya shakes her head, unable to contain her smile, as she makes her way over to the girl in front of the target who is struggling with her bow.

***

She is standing on the ramparts facing the sea, the salty breeze cool against her skin as she takes in the sight of the tall, foam-capped waves below her when Ser Davos finds her.

“Lady Stark,” he says, and though she is surprised at his presence, she doesn’t flinch as she turns to him.

“Ser Davos,” Arya greets him warmly. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I just arrived,” the older man admits. “I didn’t send word ahead of my arrival this time - I was sent on short notice." He pauses for a moment, following her gaze out to the sea. "The lord said I may find you here.”

Arya often spent time alone up here, taking in the views of the sea and the mountains, the sunrises and sunsets. There is something enticing about how the fortress of Storm's End looms so high over the landscape - she feels as though she is floating above the world. She hadn’t realized that Gendry had noticed her frequent visits, busy as he is, and her heart clenches sweetly at the thought. “He was correct, then. What brings you to Storm’s End?”

“I’m here on orders of the King, as I just informed the lord a few minutes ago.” Arya cocks her head questioningly at the mention of her brother, and Davos continues. “His Grace has shared with his small council that he has received word of an impending Northern wedding. He has made no definite plans yet, but when he travels North to attend, he wishes for the Lord Baratheon - and you - to travel with him.”

Arya ponders the request briefly. Bran surely will be traveling in a carriage, with his council and several of his lords, as well as countless guards. If she and Gendry were to travel with them, it would be slower than if it were just the two of them – but the odds of the journey being just the two of them were slim anyway. Besides, she would love to see her younger brother again, and she knows that he will not stop her from riding alongside the procession on her own horse, or try to stick her in his carriage. It seems like a fine idea, and she tells Davos so. He informs her that Gendry had said the same, and then it is quiet, peaceful for a moment as the two look out over the sea.

“I have heard,” Davos starts gruffly, cautiously. “That you and our lord are…together.”

“Yes.” Arya says, uncomfortable already. She doesn't know if this is something she wishes to discuss with this man.

“That’s good,” the older man says shortly. “He seems happy.”

“I certainly hope he does.” Arya shoots a small smile at the man, still unsure. She knows he views Gendry as a son, just as he had Jon, and wants the best for him.

“And what of marriage?” There is a protective edge to Davos’ voice. “Is that in the cards?”

Arya bristles slightly. "I'm not sure that it concerns you, Ser."

"Maybe so. Yet here I am, asking."

Arya studies the look on his lined face. He doesn’t seem upset, simply questioning and determined, and she takes a calming breath, reminding herself that he is only asking because he loves Gendry. She has that in common with him, she thinks, taking a moment to gather her words. “Yes, it is. Not right now, and not in the very near future. But at some point, yes.”

He nods, seeming slightly appeased. “That’s nice to hear. Don’t make the boy wait too long. He deserves happiness.”

“That we can agree on,” Arya says, letting her shoulders relax. She hadn’t even realized that she had tensed. Happiness was truly all that she wanted for Gendry. She hopes she can give it to him.  


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost 5k words of travel crack - enjoy!!

“I swear I can smell this wretched city already,” Gendry calls out to Arya as they ride down the Kingsroad, only minutes from the walls of the capitol city. The sun is high in the sky, the late morning air fresh against her face.

“You’re not excited to be going home?” Arya throws back, raising her voice slightly to compensate for the wind that rushes past their ears as they race towards King’s Landing.

He scoffs at her, before pulling on the reins to slow his mount to a trot. She follows suit. “I know, after all the pleasant memories I’ve made here, you would think I’d be thrilled.”

Arya guides her horse over to his, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “We’re not staying. This is just a stop. We’ll be out by evening.” He nods in response, as the city gates finally appear in the distance ahead of them.

She had received word that her sister had been able to set a date for her wedding only a month after the first letter announcing the betrothal, and they had spun into action. With generous help from Arya, Gendry had written notes for his advisors, who would be staying behind, on running the castle. His advisors were well-trained and competent, and Arya was sure they were leaving Storm’s End in good hands, but she still felt that some instruction was necessary. They had set off for King’s Landing within the week, accompanied only by a small unit of guards, who had quickly given up on trying to get either Arya or Gendry to ride alongside the group at a slower pace, and allowed the two to race ahead on their horses as they pleased.

On the day they had left, Arya had gone down to the courtyard to meet Mya and her other students. Mya had been upset at her. “How long are you gone for?”

“It’s a month’s journey to Winterfell,” Arya had said. “That’s where I grew up, and where my sister lives as Queen now.” Mya had rolled her eyes, uninterested in these details and still waiting for an answer. “I’ll be back within three months at the latest.”

Mya had glared at her. “What are we supposed to do for three months? Teach ourselves?”

Arya had mussed her hair, ignoring the girl’s protests. “I like to call it practicing. And the Master at Arms, the real one, who trains all the knights here, has promised to work with you once a week. By the time I get back, I expect you will be able to knock me into the dirt.” The girl had brightened slightly at that, but Arya still had a feeling that she would fight a bit too ferociously when Arya finally returned. She was capable of holding a wicked grudge.

As Arya and Gendry approach the Mud Gate now, they slow their pace even more to allow their guard to finally catch up with them. The guards at the gate have clearly been warned of their arrival, and let them in without a fuss. Arya watches Gendry as they follow their escort along the winding streets towards the Red Keep. He is tense, his eyes flitting around. Most of the buildings had been burned years ago, but the reconstruction seems to have kept the spirit of the city wholly intact. Arya remembers her own short time in King’s Landing with disgust, and can only imagine the memories flying through Gendry’s own head – he was orphaned here, forced to grow up alone in the streets before he became an apprentice. No, he does not look happy to be back.

Upon reaching the Red Keep, they are finally separated from their guard when they are brought to the King’s council chambers. Inside, Bran is waiting patiently, as Tyrion Lannister, Ser Davos, and Samwell Tarly converse intensely at the table. The conversation ceases as Arya and Gendry enter the room, and Arya immediately goes to her brother’s side, greeting him with a hug – he indulges her as he lifts his arms to hug her back. Gendry, who had stopped to bow towards Bran with a “Your Grace,” makes his way to Ser Davos, who he warmly embraces, before nodding towards the Hand and the Grandmaester as well.

“I hope we haven’t interrupted,” Gendry says, and Arya tries not to chuckle at his formal tone.

“Not at all,” Tyrion says, his eyes flitting between Arya and Gendry with interest. “Forgive me, but I must admit I am intrigued – when I was told that the Lord of Storm’s End would be traveling with our king to Winterfell, I wasn’t informed that the Princess Stark would be arriving with him.”

A smile plays on Ser Davos’ lips, but he says nothing.

“My sister has been staying with our Lord Baratheon,” Bran says, his voice as flat as ever. “The invitation was clearly extended to her as well.”

Tyrion looks as though he is going to say something, his eyes dancing with questions as he examines Arya in a way that makes her shift uncomfortably on her feet, but he seems to decide against it and simply nods in agreement.

“Lord Tyrion will be staying here with several of my small council to govern the city in my absence,” Bran informs Arya impassively. “We will be accompanied by Ser Davos and Grandmaester Tarly, as well as several of my lords and their men and guards.”

Tyrion Lannister lets out a frustrated noise. "The wedding of my former wife and squire, a royal event, and I am condemned to stay in this overcrowded city, leagues away. It seems unfair, does it not?"

Arya cannot bring herself to send anything other than a small sympathetic look his way, sure that Bran has already dealt with his complaining for weeks. She had figured the traveling situation would be as such, although she hopes that the procession is nowhere near as large as the one she remembers from her childhood – King Robert had traveled down the Kingsroad at a snail’s pace with what seemed like thousands of men. “How long until we depart?”

“Now that you have arrived, we should be on the road within a few hours,” Davos says, stepping forward slightly when Bran does not answer. “If you and Lord Baratheon would like to visit the stables to relieve your mounts, you are welcome to. The kitchens are open if you would like to take a small meal as well.”

Arya nods. “Thank you, Ser. Please, send for us when it is time to leave.” It takes her a moment to realize that Gendry is trailing behind her when she leaves the room – he had stopped to bow in formal farewell to the king.

“Your brother is…” His voice trails off as he catches up to her.

“Yes,” Arya says. “He is.”

Gendry is quiet for a moment. “But he wasn’t always like this?”

“No, he wasn’t. When he was a child he was…bright. And happy, and silly, and always ready for an adventure.” The last memories of Bran that she has from childhood are fuzzy in her memory now, no matter how hard she clutches at them, and her heart drops at the idea that in a few years she may not remember how he used to be at all. But then Gendry slips his hand into hers, squeezing it softly, and she can hear Bran’s laugh in her head once more, clear and high.

“I’m never sure what to say to him,” Arya admits quietly. “He says that he is no longer Bran, but I can’t believe that. He’s changed, yes, but he will always be my brother.”

Gendry hums in agreement. “He will. And you have time, you know. We will be traveling with him for almost a month. You can get to know the man he is now.”

A small smile crosses her face at the thought.

***

The procession ends up being larger than she had hoped, nearing a hundred men, their horses, and several wagons and carriages. When they depart from King’s Landing in the afternoon, Bran rides in his carriage with Samwell Tarly, and some of his lords from the Crownlands. Arya shudders at the thought of the dismal conversation that must be occurring inside that carriage, and is grateful that she is atop a fresh horse.

Gendry and Davos are riding at a fairly swift pace next to her, tossing words back and forth in casual conversation, and she takes the free moment to bask in the dappled sunshine that hits her face through the branches of the trees framing the Kingsroad.

“Care to ride ahead?” Gendry’s voice shakes her out of her reverie, and she turns to see him looking at her, the wicked grin that spreads across his face making him look far from the lord that he is supposed to be. She glances over at Ser Davos, who rolls his eyes imperceptibly and mutters something about _always_   _leaving the old man behind_ , but there is a twinkle in his eye. That is all Arya needs to see, and she spurs her horse forward, racing alongside the column easily, Gendry close behind her.

When they pass the front of the procession, the Kingsroad empty ahead, she hears one of the soldiers at the front yell something about slowing down, but she just urges her horse faster, leaving them far behind.

She slows her pace after a while, not wanting to tire her mount out on the first day of travel, but they are wholly alone on the wide road now. Gendry trots beside her, his dark hair windblown, his eyes dancing.

“You seem much happier now that we have left the city,” Arya remarks.

“Oh, am I that obvious?” He quirks an eyebrow at her.

She nods, wanting to know more. He has never told her details of his childhood in King’s Landing. “What was it like?” she finally ventures.

He knows immediately what she is referring to, a small grimace twisting his lips. “Filthy,” he says. “Filthy and dangerous.”

Arya is quiet as she waits for him to continue, drawing a picture in her head of a dark-haired young boy, skinny and scared and alone, clothed only in rags and dirt.

“My mother died when I was young, you know that,” Gendry says. “I was on my own as a child. It was just as you imagine it would be for any orphan boy. I had to fight and steal for everything. I nearly starved more times than I can count. But I made it, I became an apprentice, and you know what happened from there on.”

“Why did you go back?” He doesn’t meet her eyes when she asks. He clearly has only horrible memories of the city, faced only trauma there. And yet, when finally given his freedom from the Red Woman, he had gone back to King’s Landing, worked there for years. Arya doesn’t understand it – she had suffered less than he had in the city, yet the thought of living there again still sends a feeling of dread down her spine.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Gendry admits slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. It was the only place I knew so I went back, telling myself I would stay there just long enough to pull myself together, and then I would leave, find a new home. But the days dragged on, and I never made it out. Not on my own. I was waiting for a sign that it was time for me to leave, I suppose, and it never came. Not until Ser Davos came to get me.”

“He brought you to Jon,” Arya says with a smile.

“And then to the Wall,” Gendry laughs. “And then beyond the Wall. And then to Winterfell.”

And then to me, she thinks.

***

Most nights they make camp wherever they can, pitching their tents and eating fireside meals made by the King’s cooks that seem far too extravagant for the road. Arya shares Gendry’s spacious lord’s tent each night, pressing close to him as they sleep beneath the furs, fiercely ignoring any and all whispers and rumors that may come of it. She revels in the way that she is able to wake up lazily beside him when morning comes, still entangled in his limbs, not having to sneak back to her own room. When they begin to travel each morning, she and Gendry almost always ride ahead of the column, racing their horses and laughing as though they are children on the road again – this time with no fear for their lives. The men who ride at the front have long since given up on trying to slow them down. It’s not very lordly, she teases him one day, to race off like this. He scoffs at her and tells her that he could not care less, and that because he is a lord nobody can tell him how he should behave anyway, before pressing a kiss to her lips.

They are more than a week into their journey, night falling upon them, when she sees the inn resting at the crossroads ahead. It’s larger than any inn they have come upon so far, several stories tall and wide, with a roomy stable beside it. She glances at Gendry, seeing that he is thinking the same thing she is, and they spin around, riding back to the procession to inform the people that they will be staying at this inn tonight.

The innkeeper nearly falls over when he sees the King and his men requesting board for the night, but he is able to provide rooms for all of them, as this party is far smaller than the royal ones that used to come through here, he says. Arya gets a room to share with Gendry – it is not even a question at this point. She is sitting down to eat across from Bran and Ser Davos, tearing into a warm loaf of bread, when Gendry grabs her arm. “Arya, look – is that…?”

She looks up in exasperation, following his gaze across the dining area to where a large man stands with his back to them, serving bowls of thick stew. But when he turns slightly, there is no mistaking it.

“Hot Pie!” she calls out, thrilled.

The man turns towards her voice, his wonderfully familiar face splitting into a shocked smile as he nearly drops the bowl of stew in his hands. Arya leaps out of her seat and makes her way over to him, dragging Gendry behind her. She hears Ser Davos’ voice say something questioningly to Bran as they leave the table, but she can make out his words no more than she can Bran’s calm response.

“Arry, I can’t believe it’s you again!” Hot Pie exclaims, and his look of shock increases exponentially as Arya pulls him into a hug. The last time she had seen him, she remembers, she had not been at a point in her life where she could greet with hugs. “And…Gendry?”

“Again?” Gendry questions, sticking his hand out to greet Hot Pie before shaking his head and giving in, pulling the man into a quick embrace.

“We ran into each other years ago,” Arya says. “Right before I went to Winterfell.”

“You never told me that,” Gendry says with a frown.

“My apologies, my lord,” Arya smirks at him, before realizing that Hot Pie is staring at them with wide eyes, his gaze darting back and forth between them. “Can you sit and talk for a moment, Hot Pie?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hot Pie waves a young serving boy over to continue serving the stew, and then guides them towards an empty table in the corner. “The two of you, here, together! I never thought I’d see it again. And traveling with the King, no less! Well, he’s your brother, Arry, so I guess that makes sense, but Gendry, how did you end up traveling with royalty?”

Gendry glances at Arya, looking slightly overwhelmed. “Gendry’s something like royalty himself now,” Arya says. “He’s a bastard of the late King Robert, now a legitimized Baratheon, and the Lord of Storm’s End.”

“You? A lord?” Hot Pie gapes, taking in the sight of Gendry’s fine clothes stamped with the Baratheon stag. “I don’t believe it! I mean, I had heard of the new Lord Baratheon, but I had no idea it was _you!_ To think, all those years ago, I was traveling with a highborn lady and a royal bastard, and I had no clue!”

Arya laughs, and then there is a squeal from behind Hot Pie as small child barrels into the man. Arya watches with wide eyes as Hot Pie picks the child up, a young girl with stumpy brown braids, and hoists her into his lap with a smile.

“Dorothy, darling, I’m speaking with guests right now,” Hot Pie says, his voice gentle, and Arya sees Gendry’s jaw drop out of the corner of her eye.

“Is that…?” Arya asks slowly.

“This is my daughter, Dorothy,” Hot Pie confirms, smiling broadly. “Her mother, I mean, my wife, must be around here somewhere.” He looks around the room, his eyes settling on a pretty, plump woman, who he waves over.

“Hot Pie, I – I had no idea – I mean, wow, congratulations!” Arya finally splutters out, shocked, digging her elbow into Gendry’s side until he repeats the congratulations in an incredulous tone.

Hot Pie grins proudly, and when his wife, who he introduces as Joy, has arrived, he gestures toward his guests. “Joy, Dorothy, this is Arry and Gendry. I traveled with them when we were children.” Arya is grateful that he does not introduce them by their noble titles, wanting to bask in the happy simplicity of this normal, easy conversation for as long as she can.

His daughter lets out an excited gasp. She can’t be more than five. “Oh, my father has told me so many stories about you!”

“Oh, yeah?” Gendry says, smiling. “What has he said?”

Dorothy giggles and pushes herself off her father’s lap, dashing around the table so she can clamber onto Gendry’s lap with the familiarity that only a child can possess. Arya looks on fondly for a moment as the girl begins to speak animatedly, Gendry nodding and gasping at her fantastical stories at all the right moments as Joy smiles apologetically at her daughter’s manners.

“She’s a beautiful little girl,” Arya says, turning back to Hot Pie.

Hot Pie beams. “Isn’t she? Her fifth name day is coming up, and I’m planning a near feast.”

“That’s wonderful.” Arya really means it. “You’re still a cook here, then?”

“The head cook,” Hot Pie says, puffing his chest out. “I’m in charge of the whole kitchen. That’s how I met Joy, she was a serving girl here. We got married only weeks after we met.”

Arya congratulates him again, amazed at how the boy she had known has grown into a man with a family. She catches Gendry’s eye briefly, and he grins at her in amusement, the little girl on his lap still regaling him with stories that her father had told about their childhood journeys, none of them even close to the truth.

“So, what’s with you two, then?” Hot Pie asks.

“Me and Gendry?” Arya responds, her heart beating a little faster.

Hot Pie nods. “Are you, you know, together?”

“Not exactly.”

Hot Pie frowns. “Oh. Really? I thought, you know, he’s a lord now, and you’re still a lady, and you’re traveling together again – and when we were kids, you know, I always thought that maybe there was something—”

“We aren’t married, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arya cuts him off, growing uncomfortable. “But…” She’s not entirely sure how to explain it.

Hot Pie nods sagely, and Arya wonders if he truly understands. The boy she had traveled with as a child had not been especially perceptive, but the man she sits with now seems as if he has figured out the situation, or at least is pretending he has, as he changes the subject. “Where are you headed, then?”

“To the North, to Winterfell,” Arya says, grateful for the new topic. “My sister, the Queen in the North, is getting married.”

“Wow,” Hot Pie gasps. “I just put it together – your brother is a king, and your sister is a queen. That makes you a princess, right? Suppose I should be calling you Princess Arry.”

“Please don’t,” Arya groans.

Before long, Hot Pie has procured meals for all of them, filling the table with his own stews, breads, and pies, each food more sinfully delicious than the last. They are served a thick ale, and stories flow between the old friends, intercut with laughter and jokes. Arya feels, just for a moment, as if they have found their way back to the forests where they had once traveled, just the three of them against the entire world.

***

It’s a stupid mistake on her part, truly stupid, that twists her ankle almost three weeks into their journey. A hidden, gnarled root next to the bank of the river where they are watering the horses is what takes her down, and no matter how she tries, she cannot hide her limp. And she certainly cannot hide the fact that her swollen foot will not fit into her boot. Gendry insists that she cannot ride, and she smacks him – she does not need to be treated like an invalid, no matter how badly her ankle hurts – but his sentiment is echoed by Ser Davos and Samwell Tarly, and somehow, she finds herself stuck riding in the royal carriage with Bran for the day.

Arya had wanted to spend time with her younger brother, of course, but he had been distant for most of the journey, spending nearly all of his time alone. Now it is just the two of them, though, his lords and council on horseback for the day, and she is determined to make the most of it. Even if she’s not sure exactly how to do so.

“We should be at Winterfell within the week,” she says cautiously. “How long has it been since you have been there?”

“Years,” Bran says shortly, and she is discouraged by his flat response. But then he lifts his eyes to hers, the barest echo of a smile on his face. “Too long.”

Arya nods, smiling. “I remember how it felt to ride through the gates after so long. It’s…always going to feel like home, I suppose.”

“I’ve been there many times since, in my dreams,” Bran says. “I expect that to visit in person shall be a relief.”

She itches to ask him more about his dreams and visions, but she knows that will pull him back from her, away from the Bran that she is slowly drawing out.

“Sansa will be thrilled to see you. Jon, too.” Arya reclines along the cushioned seat. The carriage they sit in is sturdy and well-crafted, comfortable, but not extravagant. Perfect for her brother.

“Yes,” Bran agrees, his eyes drifting back to look out the window at the passing lands. “I’ve kept an eye on them through the years, just as I did with you.” He pauses. “I never think of how my family cannot keep an eye on me in the same way.” She doesn’t think she is imagining the twinge of sadness in his voice, more emotion than she has seen him show in years.

“They don’t hold it against you. I don’t.”

“I know,” Bran says softly, and they are quiet for a moment.

“Do – do you remember my ninth name day?” The memory has rushed back into Arya’s brain in a sudden flood, and unwelcome tears prick at her eyes. Bran says nothing, and she wonders briefly if he remembers at all, or if this memory of their family has been pushed out of his brain to make room for the memories of mankind, deemed far more important.

But then he meets her gaze steadily, almost warmly. “Of course I do. The cook had baked you a towering cake, and we snuck into the kitchens to see it.”

Arya lets out a choked laugh. “We knocked it right over within seconds, trying to taste it. Jon found us covered in splattered cake and cream, and nearly fell over from laughing. He and Robb tried to help us clean it up, but Septa Mordane found us before we finished.”

Bran nods. “You ruined your special name day dress. Mother sent us to bed without supper, but Father snuck us a meal.”

“She said my gift that year was the lesson I learned about being impatient and greedy,” Arya remembers with a snort. “I don’t think it stuck.”

“You learned eventually,” Bran says. He exhales sharply, and Arya thinks that breath might have been a laugh, one day.

“I was so difficult to her,” she says. “I never made things easy. Gods, I wish that I had.”

“You wouldn’t have been you if you had,” Bran points out. “She loved you anyway, just as much as she loved all of us. With her whole heart, and more.”

Arya nods. She doesn’t need to tell Bran that she still misses them desperately – Catelyn, Ned, Robb and Rickon – he already knows. She doesn’t need to tell him that they are part of the reason she cannot stay at Winterfell, that their ghosts haunt her when she is there. He already knows. In a display of empathy that she has never expected from him, her younger brother reaches out his hand, covering her own lightly, his touch telling her that he understands. She closes her eyes, letting the few tears roll down her cheeks.

When night falls and the traveling for the day is done, Ser Davos knocks on the carriage door while the tents are being pitched. There is no response, and he swings the door open. Inside, his young king is resting, leaning against the back of his seat, eyes closed, with his sister’s head slumped against his thin shoulder. In their sleep, their faces are drawn young and innocent, masks of the children they once were. Davos smiles, shutting the door softly. He will let them rest for a few minutes more.

***

They are truly in the North now, only a few days from Winterfell, the wind growing brisker and chillier every day. Arya feels the blood in her veins racing hotter and faster, the cold awakening the wolf in her. It doesn’t matter how long she is away – when she returns to the North, she comes alive.

Gendry is not so lucky as he sits in his saddle, his cheeks pink from the cold, grumbling to himself. Arya finds it adorable, but she would never tell him so. The sun is low in the sky, and most of their column has begun to set up camp for the night, but Arya was not ready to settle down for the night, and had convinced Gendry to ride through the woods with her. She has a feeling in her gut that there is somebody waiting for her.

There is a sharp crack in the brush to her right, and Arya turns her head quickly, her eyes straining in the dimming light. There. She swings off her horse, ignoring Gendry’s confused protests, and steps forward lightly, waiting.

Nymeria slides out of the shadows, her golden eyes glowing. Arya lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, reaching out her hand to the direwolf. The last time she had seen Nymeria, the wolf had been surrounded by her pack, but she is alone now as she approaches Arya.

The she-wolf ducks her massive head, pressing her dark gray fur into Arya’s outstretched hand, and Arya slowly runs her fingers through the mane, her heart swelling with joy. She knows this encounter will be brief, that her wolf is meant to run in the wild and will never be caged, but she relishes this small reminder of her childhood anyway.

“Nymeria?” Gendry’s voice is breathless, filled with something like awe. This wolf is bigger than Ghost, fiercer, wilder. He must have remembered her name from the countless stories Arya had told him over the years.

The wolf pads over to Gendry, who has dismounted his horse without Arya even realizing. He is tense as Nymeria approaches, but he stands his ground. The she-wolf circles him once, sniffing, before pressing her flank into his legs.

“Pet her,” Arya says softly, happily, and he obliges, lifting a hand to stroke the wolf’s fur. “She approves of you.”

“Thank the gods,” Gendry manages. “I’m not sure there would be much I could do if she didn’t.”

Nymeria stands by him only a moment longer before returning to Arya. The wolf butts her head affectionately into Arya’s legs, nearly knocking her over, and then bounds away, disappearing into the darkness once more.

“That’s it? She’s not staying?” Gendry’s eyes are searching, trying to see where the wolf has gone.

“No,” Arya says. “That’s not her. She’s meant to be in the wild. I might have run with her, once.”

Gendry looks at her, his breath clouding in the cool air, his gaze questioning. “Once?”

She nods. “Once. Not anymore. She’ll always be a part of me, and I a part of her. But I’ve chosen differently now.”

“Oh, you have? You’re not going to leave me to run off into the wild and live among the wolves?” He steps closer and wraps his arms around her.

“Not unless you keep that up,” Arya says, smirking, as he presses his lips to her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe bran still having some bran in him isn't in line with canon, but i don't care - i love bran and i refuse to believe that he has been completely replaced by the three-eyed raven, i know my baby boy is still in there


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope ya enjoy :)

“He’s sulking,” Sansa says, a smile playing on her lips as she leads Arya, who is pushing Bran, through the North Gate of Winterfell. “Brooding, really.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Arya laughs, and Bran makes a small noise of agreement. “He feels blindsided, I’m sure.” Jon had not been waiting to greet them in the courtyard with her sister when they had finally arrived. Sansa had informed her that he was currently a short walk outside the walls, at the small camp that he and the few Freefolk he had traveled with had set up. They hadn’t felt comfortable staying inside the castle, Sansa said. So Gendry had told Arya he would take care of her horse and belongings, and Bran’s men did the same, and Arya and her siblings had left.

“Oh, yes,” Sansa says. A small gathering of tents appears in the near distance, smoke rising from a campfire. “He arrived a couple weeks ago, all worked up.”

“You took care of that, though,” Bran says suddenly.

Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up, a slight blush coloring her cheeks pink. “I – yes, I may have told him off a bit. He was far too upset about things he didn’t have the right to be upset about. He’s still quite moody about it.”

Arya smiles, imagining a furious Jon arriving at the gates of Winterfell. She doesn’t think Sansa would have stood for any of his anger about his younger sister getting married – Sansa is a grown woman and a queen, after all, and though Jon is protective of her, he needs to respect her. She especially doesn’t think Sansa would have stayed quiet if any of Jon’s upset were to be directed towards Ser Podrick – Sansa is extremely protective over those she loves. Yes, she can picture her sister yelling right back at Jon.

Ghost is the first to notice their small party approaching, bounding over happily with his large mouth lolling open. The white direwolf is gentle as he approaches Sansa and Bran, sniffing and bumping at them eagerly, but when he gets to Arya he nearly knocks her into the ground as his massive front paws land on her shoulders. He nuzzles into her face, his thick fur nearly suffocating her as she laughs, scratching at the nub where his right ear used to be.

“Down, Ghost!” Jon’s voice cuts through the air, and the wolf grudgingly backs off as his master approaches.

Arya grins at her older brother and runs to greet him, nearly jumping as she wraps her arms around him in a tight hug, which he happily reciprocates. He goes to Bran next, pressing a fierce kiss to his younger brother’s head as he embraces him. “Look at all of you,” Jon says gruffly, his eyes shining.

Arya remembers the last time they had all been together, years ago, the last of the Starks. They had exchanged their tearful goodbyes before they scattered to the winds, Sansa to the North, Jon headed even farther North, Arya to the West, and Bran staying in the South. At the time, she hadn’t been sure if they would ever all be together again. But now, standing here, she’s not sure how she ever doubted it – their pack is strong and will always survive. They will always find their way back to each other. 

“Did you know?” Jon says suddenly, accusingly, glaring at Arya, shattering the haze of reminiscence. “You knew, didn’t you?” He looks at Bran. “You definitely knew. And neither of you told me!” 

Sansa is rolling her eyes, and Arya tries not to smile at she looks at Jon innocently. “What is it I’m supposed to have known?”

He splutters, gesturing towards Sansa. “You _know!_ That – that she was with him—”

“Podrick,” Sansa corrects icily.

“—and that she was going to marry him!” Jon is indignant again, upset as an older brother, but also because he was the last of the family to know.

Arya does her best not to laugh. “Jon. I only had a faint idea of it, barely an inkling.” That is not entirely true – she and Sansa had discussed it only once, but that discussion had ended in Arya actively encouraging the marriage. Jon doesn’t need to know the all of the details.

“Which you didn’t share with me!” Jon insists stubbornly.

“How was I supposed to do that? Was I to send a raven North, with the instructions to fly past the Wall and just keep flying until it miraculously finds you? Or was I supposed to come all the way by myself, to share this bit of gossip?” 

Jon laughs ruefully, shaking his head. “I – I don’t know. Fine. But you—” he turns to Bran. “Surely there was some way _you_ could have contacted me.” 

Bran tilts his head slightly. “I know many things, Jon, but I don’t look into the future to see every single marriage that is to take place.”

Jon sighs.

“I did know of this one, though,” Bran adds – is he making a _joke?_ – and Arya can’t stop herself anymore, bursting into laughter as Sansa giggles next to her.

Jon throws his hands into the air, groaning in exasperation. “Traitors, every single one of you.” But he is smiling as he takes Bran’s wheelchair from Arya, leading them towards the Freefolk camp with Ghost pacing by his side.

“How many are with you?” Arya asks, excited to see Jon’s people.

“Not many,” Jon says. “But now that my presence here is no longer a crime, I am able to bring some with me.”

Arya counts six tents encircling the blazing campfire. Several men and women sit around the fire, and Arya can recognize Tormund’s shock of fiery hair, next to a tall, striking blond woman. A group of three children comes running towards them as they near the camp. The larger boy and girl, both of them cackling wildly, launch themselves at Jon, each grabbing onto one of his legs, while the smaller boy dashes quietly towards Sansa, to Arya’s shock, and grabs onto her sister’s hand gently.

“Jon – are these…?” The question dies in Arya’s throat.

“They’re not mine, no,” Jon laughs, trying desperately to peel the girl from his leg. “Not by blood, anyway.”

“Orphans,” Bran explains quietly, while Jon is dragged to the ground. “He takes care of them.”

Sansa has scooped the small boy into her arms, ruffling his light hair. “This is Addam. I’m afraid I’ve developed quite a soft spot for him over these few weeks. The ones currently wrestling our brother to the ground are Blane and Elissa – twins.” The boy blinks at her with wide eyes, and Arya is sure she has a similar expression as she stares back in shock. Sansa could have warned her, at the very least.

Arya makes her way over to Jon just as he stands back up, breathing heavily as the two young twins give up on tackling him back down. It’s impossible to miss the look of fatherly affection that flashes in his eyes, and she is enraged. Arya punches his arm. “You had the _nerve_ —” she smacks him again, to the roaring laughter of the children. “—to get mad at me for not telling you of Sansa, when you didn’t breathe a word of _this_ to me?”

“Arya, I wanted to, I promise,” Jon insists, at least having the decency to look embarrassed. “But you would have wanted to meet them, and I was still a criminal at that point. You couldn’t have come with me.”

“I would have wanted to, yes, but I’m not an idiot, Jon! I would have respected your wishes!” Arya scoffs incredulously, turning to Sansa, whose eyes express sympathy – she had surely been just as surprised when Jon arrived with the children. She looks at Bran, whose expression is as inscrutable as ever. “You knew about this, Bran? And you didn’t say anything to me?”

“Now you know how I feel!” Jon exclaims. “It's not so funny when it happens to you, is it? There are far too many secrets between us!”

“It’s not the same—” Arya starts stubbornly, but she is interrupted by a bellow.

“Look who it is!” Tormund has stood up from the fire, grinning wildly. “Our little Southern king! And our slightly less Southern queen! And – is that – the Bringer of the Dawn? The slayer of the _fuckin’ Night King?_ ”

The tensions between the siblings begin to dissipate as the ginger man approaches and claps Jon heavily on the back.

“Tormund,” Arya greets him warily, half-expecting him to crush her in a hug as she has seen him do to Jon many times. Thankfully, he does not.

“I see you’ve met the little ones,” Tormund gestures towards the twins, who have begun to scuffle with each other, and Addam, who is still perched in Sansa’s arms. “Come, come sit at our fire. We’ve just begun to eat.” He grabs Blane and Elissa, heaving their squirming bodies over his shoulders easily, and leads the way to the fire, not even bothering to look back to see if the Starks are following.

The Freefolk greet Sansa as warmly as they greet Jon – she must be visiting their camp often – and seem happy to finally meet Arya and Bran. Arya finds herself wedged next to the blond woman she had noticed, who introduces herself as Val. She is dressed in all white, a splendid pale fur cloak flowing down her back, and her face is strong and sharply beautiful.

Arya observes the gathering curiously, watching how comfortable Jon is with Tormund and Val, and also with the dark young woman named Ella who cradles a babe in her arms and the small quiet man who they call Forrest. She is served meat from the leg of deer they are roasting, and a bowl of aromatic vegetable stew, and the Freefolk cheer when Sansa produces a loaf of bread that she has brought from the Winterfell kitchens. The children eat quickly so they can go play, and Arya notices how each one of the adults keeps an eye on them, as though they all share the responsibility of raising them. They are a unit, a family – even, she supposes, a pack – and they have accepted Sansa, Arya, and Bran for the night with ease.

The time passes quickly, the conversation flowing lightly as the Freefolk share their stories of Jon with his siblings, and they tell their own stories of childhood in return. At one point, Tormund tells the children of how Arya killed the Night King – he is curiously detailed about an event that he absolutely did not witness – and they look at Arya with something like awe after. But night falls quickly upon them, and they must say their farewells, before Jon escorts his siblings back to Winterfell.

“Jon, I’m sorry I hit you,” Arya says as they walk, lightly bouncing over a fallen log. “But in my defense, I still think I deserved to know that you had children.”

“They’re not _my_ children,” Jon grumbles halfheartedly, rubbing his arm as if he can still feel the blow. Ghost treads at his side. “We all raise them.”

“Do they call you father?” Arya asks.

Jon shakes his head, just as Bran says, “They used to.” Jon scoffs in protest, but Arya doesn’t miss the fondness that shines in his eyes. Jon. A _father_. It seems almost unbelievable.

“I think it’s nice,” Sansa says firmly. “These children lost their parents, and you have given them a family. Children need that.”

We needed that, Arya thinks. It is not surprising that Jon wants to help these children, after all that his own family had been through when they were young. Besides, Jon had always wanted sons and daughters, and these children seem to have inherited his spirit, even if they don’t have his blood. “I’m happy for you,” she says, wrapping her arm briefly around her older brother. “Truly.”

***

Winterfell grew more crowded by the day as more and more Northern lords arrived for the wedding, which was only a week away. Gendry, who had originally been given a private room all the way in the guest wing for Jon’s sake, had been coaxed by a relentless Arya to move his belongings into her room. It will free up space for the actual guests, she insisted. There was no hiding it from Bran, and Sansa had all but actively encouraged it, so each morning and night had become a game of sneaking him in and out of the family tower without Jon, who spent half his nights in Winterfell and half with his Freefolk, noticing. They had hardly been playing for less than a week when they lost.

Jon’s eyes are steely as he looks at them, and Arya automatically steps forward, pushing Gendry, who has frozen at the sight of her brother, behind her. “Jon—” she starts.

“So he’s sleeping with you, then?” Jon’s voice is tight.

“We are _not_ having this conversation.” Arya says sharply. “Not like this. Not ever, probably. Just because you are my brother doesn’t mean this is any of your business.”

“It is, though,” Jon insists, taking a step forward. Arya stands her ground, her chin tipped up defiantly. He may be able to intimidate Gendry, but not her. “It’s my business when it’s happening right here, right under my nose.”

“You aren’t entitled to any information about my private life that I don’t want to give you,” Arya retorts, rage welling in her chest. She is a grown woman, and she does not need this.

Jon rubs his forehead in a mix of exasperation and anger, letting out a sigh. “Arya, please. I just – we just talked about keeping secrets from each other.”

“It’s not exactly a secret!” Arya says, laughing harshly. “We’ve been living together for months at Storm’s End. What did you _think_ was happening?”

This pointed comment jabs at him and he stiffens, eyes flashing furiously. Arya feels her fists curling in sync with his, she is _not_ going to let him take this stupid, unnecessary anger out on Gendry, and she’s truly not sure what she would have done if Gendry hadn’t grabbed her and pulled her back.

“Jon,” he says hesitantly, his hands heavy on Arya’s shoulders. She focuses on his touch, trying to calm herself. “I love her. And she loves me.”

Jon is taken aback only for a moment, looking to Arya for confirmation, which she gives to him with a stiff nod. “That’s good,” he says gruffly, the smallest hint of approval barely audible in his voice. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you – you’re – you know – with my little sister!”

Arya tries not to scoff in her brother’s face. “I am hardly little. You don’t need to protect me! I’m a woman grown, and very capable of making my own decisions.”

“I’m never going to stop looking out for you,” Jon insists roughly. “And this – situation – you’re sharing a bed, and you’re not married – people will talk.”

She almost hoots with incredulous laughter. “As if you have any right to lecture me on laying with someone out of marriage! I don’t care what people say about me, I never have, and you know that. If our dear queen sister has taken no issue with the propriety of the situation, I can’t see why you should.”

Jon frowns. “Sansa knows.” It is not a question, nor a revelation – just a fact that he really should have been aware of.

“Yes, she does.” Arya glares at him, pulling Gendry forward by the hand until he stands next to her, his face still slightly paled. “And not that it even matters, but we are going to get married.”

Jon’s jaw drops. “When?” he manages.

“We don’t know yet,” Gendry says. “Whenever Arya is—”

“Soon,” she says firmly, without meaning to. Both men turn to her in shock.

“Soon?” Gendry repeats the word questioningly, hopefully. Arya nods, forgetting her brother for a moment, and a smile breaks across his face. She hadn’t realized it, not until she had found herself defending him from her brother, but she was nearly ready to marry him. She had sworn some type of private vow to him in her mind ages ago, but now she thinks she may be able to swear it out loud to him. The thought still makes her hands tremble, but her fear crumbles as he wraps his arms around her in delight, lifting her off her feet.

“I think that’s enough.” Jon says sharply, and Gendry grudgingly sets her down. She misses his touch almost immediately as she looks back to her brother, whose face is twisted into a pained grimace.

“You’re not going to change my mind,” Arya says calmly.

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m not going to try to. I just—” He looks at Gendry. “I always liked you, ever since we met. You saved my life, and I’ll never forget that. But if you ever hurt her—”

“We know,” Arya interrupts impatiently. “You’ll kill him. You don’t need to worry about it ever even coming close to that. Now, if _you_ ever try to hurt _him_ —” She grabs Gendry’s hand fiercely, pulling him towards her. “ _I’ll_ kill _you_. He’s my family now too, Jon.”

Jon barks out a short laugh. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He isn’t happy, no, but he seems resigned. That is the best she can ask for right now. He shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he claps a hand a bit too harshly on Gendry’s shoulder before walking away.

When he is gone, Gendry turns to Arya, exhaling heavily. “I truly thought I might die today. Right here, in this hallway.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Arya smirks. “I promise I will protect you from my brother.”

“How gracious of you, milady,” he retorts. She rolls her eyes, pushing him against the wall and leaning up onto her toes to kiss him.

***

“Are you scared?” Sansa looks up at Arya’s question, her brows colliding in confusion. She is sitting at her desk, the castle ledgers open in front of her – this wedding is expensive, and Sansa has been poring over the numbers for days. Arya had offered to help, but her sister had just waved her off, and so Arya found herself perched on the windowsill, her mind filled with a million thoughts as she stared out the window.

“No, I’m not,” Sansa says finally, her mouth pressed in a line as she thinks. “Do you think I should be?”

“No!” Arya tears her gaze away from the window. “No, not at all. I shouldn’t have asked.” She tries to end the conversation there, but Sansa has already closed the book in front of her and is making her way over to sit next to Arya on the windowsill.

“I’m excited,” Sansa says, smoothing out her gown. “Maybe I should be more anxious, because this is my wedding, after all, but I can’t find it in me.”

“This was all you dreamed about as a girl,” Arya remembers.

“It was,” Sansa says with a small frown. “And then I learned very quickly that I was never going to get it.” She doesn’t speak of the marriages she had been forced into, or the horrors and abuses she had suffered because of them, but Arya knows she is thinking of them. It wasn’t fair, all that Sansa had suffered at such a young age. Arya looks at the woman sitting in front of her now, all quiet strength and compassion, and wonders for the hundredth time how her sister had not only survived it, but come out the other side so willfully unbroken.

“You’re getting your dream now, though,” Arya says.

Sansa smiles, and she is glowing. “Yes. On my own terms, and by my own choice. I don’t see how I can be anything but deliriously happy.”

Arya doesn’t know how to tell her that she is deliriously happy for her as well – she has never been very talented at putting her feelings into words. Instead, she grabs her sister’s hand and squeezes softly, trying to communicate her feelings through the small touch.

Sansa hums contentedly, understanding. “I have something to tell you,” she says suddenly, turning sharply to meet Arya’s gaze, her grip tightening.

She doesn’t look upset, despite what her vicelike fingers might suggest. Sansa’s eyes are bright, a little apprehensive, but there is a shy smile on her face as Arya nods.

“I know you will keep this secret for me,” Sansa starts. “It may not be wise to share, but I need to tell someone. I—” She trails off, as if searching for the words, but Arya does not miss the way her hands drift down to her stomach, resting lightly there, and with a jolt, she understands.

“Sansa!” Arya gasps, her heart pounding. “You’re with child?”

Sansa blushes, infuriatingly beautiful as she does so, nodding. “I’m not showing yet, it’s only around two months along, according to the maester – he is the only person who knows and I have sworn him to secrecy. And I know what you are thinking, but this is not why we are marrying now, I swear it. I had set the date before I knew, and I haven’t even told Pod yet. I’m going to, soon, but I just don’t know how to, and…” She trails off.

Arya’s head is spinning, and somehow the only thing she can manage to say is, “So you have lain with him?”

Her sister’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink.

“Well then, are they true? All the stories they tell about him?” Arya is smirking now, her tone mischievous as Sansa’s jaw drops at the question.

“Arya! That’s not – I won’t—”

“I think that means yes, then?” Arya laughs as her sister groans and covers her burning face with her hands, slumping backwards in defeat. She tries to calm her mirth, taking Sansa’s hand again. “I’m happy for you.”

Sansa really is glowing now as she smiles, Arya thinks. She knows that Sansa has pined for a family for years, wanted to fill her castle with children of her own. She can see them now, little redheaded boys and dark-haired girls with Tully blue eyes, running through the halls of Winterfell, wreaking havoc just as she once had. Sansa will be as wonderful a mother as she is a queen, if not better.

“Will you be upset if I ask you to keep this even from Gendry? Just for a few more days?”

Arya almost scoffs at the suggestion. “Of course not. This is your secret, I won’t go sharing it as if it is mine.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, her eyes shining. “I’m a little nervous, and I still have to tell Podrick and, oh, I suppose I will have to tell Jon as well. That won’t be fun. But I’m ready.”

Arya smiles. “Of course you are. You won’t be the only Stark in Winterfell for much longer.”

***

The Godswood is cold tonight, and Arya shivers as she makes her way towards the heart tree, rubbing her bare arms. She doesn’t remember it being this cold in years – winter had come and gone at the Battle of Winterfell, and they are in the midst of a summer now. Yet there is snow falling all around her, the ground cloaked in a thin layer of white. Arya frowns in confusion, just as she hears a small noise behind her and a chill runs down her spine. She turns as the hand closes around her throat.

The fingers are frigid, burning coldly into her flesh, constricting her windpipe as she is lifted into the air. She looks down, kicking her legs wildly, gasping for breath, into a pair of ice blue eyes set into Gendry’s face. No. This is wrong, those are not the blue eyes that she knows so well. She rasps another haggard breath, her fingers shooting forward and scrabbling at the face, finding the seams at the jawline and ripping it off, revealing the White Walker that she had stabbed so many years ago.

His hand tightens around her throat, biting into her skin, and she can’t breathe, she can’t _breathe._ She has no weapon, dangling above the ground as her hands pull at his hopelessly, unable to break the grip. She is lightheaded now, her throat crushed, panic crashing into her chest in a wave. Where is her weapon? She needs her dagger.

The heart tree bursts into a column of flames and screams echo around the Godswood. She can smell burning flesh all around her as the flames spread, and, no, it’s not snow falling but _ash,_ and she is dropped heavily to the ground, as the Night King shatters. The ash settles into her lungs as she gasps for breath, and she can’t even stand up, her legs crumpled beneath her as the fire burns closer and the agonized screams of people she cannot see grow louder and louder, and her vision is fading to black, and she cannot _breathe._

“Arya!” His voice breaks through the darkness and she is yanked into consciousness, Gendry’s hands gripping her shoulders as she thrashes in the bed.

Her heart is racing faster than it ever has before as she rips herself from his hold, wheezing for air, throwing herself backwards out of the bed. Her legs tangle in the furs as she does, sending her sprawling on the floor. She is covered in sweat and shaking as she claws at her throat, which still burns as fiercely as if a torch is being held directly to it, in the shape of an icy, dead hand. She remembers the horrifying handprint of a bruise that had covered her neck for weeks after the Battle of Winterfell, dark purple and freezing, making every breath hurt.

Gendry is out of bed now, moving to her, his eyes wide with concern and fear. He reaches toward her, and she scrambles backwards, a small shriek ripping from her throbbing throat. “No! Don’t touch me!”

He pulls back immediately, and she closes her eyes, drawing rasping breaths as her hand still clutches at her neck. A nightmare. That’s all. She hasn’t had a nightmare in years, not since she was traveling on her ship. She would sometimes cry out in the night back then, and her crew pretended they didn’t hear – she had ordered them to do so after they had nearly broken down her cabin door the first night the dreams ripped screams from her throat. The nightmares were always the same, flashes of her past battles all intercut together into one terrifying scene, and she had learned how to deal with them as best she could. But she had thought she was past them, and had stupidly let her guard down, and now she was trembling on the floor.

“Arya.” His voice is gentle as he sits on the floor in front of her, a safe distance away. She forces her eyes open and a flood of tears rushes down her cheeks – when did she start crying? – as she looks at him. He is staring at her, his expression pained. His eyes are blue, the warm blue that they always are, even when they are filled with worry as they are now. But she can still see his face from her dream in her head, the icy eyes that cut to her heart, and she scoots forward. He is still and patient as she grabs at his face, running her fingers frantically along his jaw and neck, searching for any clue that he is not Gendry. But she finds nothing, and her heart calms ever so slightly with relief.

It still feels as though she has truly been strangled, her breaths coming short and ragged, and the memory of the hand still burns on her neck. But she does not flinch away when he slowly lifts a hand to wipe at the tears that are streaked down her face.

Gendry studies her carefully, his face still distressed. He takes her quivering hands in his own, stilling them. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Arya shakes her head vehemently. She’s not sure if she could even form the words with her aching throat. He nods, still looking at her like _that_ , and something breaks in her. She throws her arms around him, pulling herself half into his lap, her lip trembling as she buries her face in his chest. His arms are strong around her, his hands softly stroking her back and hair in comforting circles, and he presses a kiss to her head as she fails to stop the tears pricking at her eyes from falling. A sob rips painfully from her throat, her shoulders heaving, and his grip tightens.

She lets herself cry freely, something that she has not done in years, and he holds her as they sit on the floor. When her eyes are run dry and her heart no longer pounding, she slowly pulls back from him. “Let’s go back to bed.”

When they are lying down, he immediately pulls her close to him once more, his arms circling her body protectively. She supposes that this is the first time he has seen her like this, and thinks that, while she is perfectly able to protect herself, it’s nice to know that he wants to take care of her as well.

“It was death,” she says quietly.

He shifts. “In the dream?”

Arya nods. “Death by ice and fire. The White Walkers and the dragonfire. I had told you that I knew death, but I didn't. Not until I faced those.” Both of those threats are long gone now, but she knows she will always be haunted by the horrors she had witnessed at their hands. He seems to understand, maybe he is haunted too, because he does not press her further on the topic.

“Does this happen often?” he asks instead.

“No,” she admits. “I haven’t had these nightmares in years. I – I don’t know why it came back so suddenly.” Maybe it is because she is back in Winterfell, where the Long Night had come to pass. Maybe it is because she is surrounded by her family, happy at last, and her mind is scared she will lose that. She does not know. But she has Gendry now, and he had pulled her out of her nightmare, sat with her until she had recovered, comforted her even after that. It doesn’t matter where they are, he is her home and she is his, and that thought allows her to drift back to sleep, safe with him next to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i want cheesiness and more cheese on top of that, what about it? :)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tried something different with POV since there are so many characters here :)

Myranda’s hands are steady and practiced as she laces up her queen’s gown, even as her heart beats excitedly in her chest. The gown is beautiful, elegant and pale grey with white accents, embroidered details of direwolves and weirwoods dancing across the silken fabric. She had watched Sansa work on the dress for weeks, and the final product made her look a Northern vision. Sansa had refused to wear her crown during her wedding, which allowed Myranda to style her hair, weaving intricate braids across the crown of her head and allowing the rest to tumble down her back in fiery curls. As she steps back from her queen now, she thinks that she may be the most beautiful bride she has ever seen.

“Thank you, Myranda,” Sansa says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt.

Myranda drops a small curtsy, unable to stop herself from smiling shyly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Sansa purses her lips slightly. “I suppose it’s nearly time to go down. If you will indulge me, I have had something made for you to wear.”

Myranda shakes her head in confusion. She is not attending the wedding, she is only a lady-in-waiting and the Godswood is surely already full with lords and ladies of far higher status. She says as much to Sansa, who dismisses this with a wave of her hand as she pulls a gown out of her wardrobe.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you will be in attendance. Please, put this on, and then you may escort me down to where my brother waits.”

Myranda takes the gown, made of exquisite blue cloth, and she is sure this is the nicest gown she has ever owned. “I don’t know what to say, Your Grace. Thank you.” Sansa beams at her, before urging her to get changed so they can go. Myranda obliges. She has seen countless brides on their wedding day, but she doesn’t think she has ever seen a woman as happy as her queen is right now.

***

The wool of the tunic is constricting around Jon’s throat and he tugs at it in frustration as he waits at the entrance to the Godswood. Sansa had insisted that he not wear his usual thick furs to her wedding, which he could not fault her for, but it had been years since he had worn proper noble clothes, and he was unused to it. He had pulled his hair neatly out of his face and shaved most of his beard off as well. He is not happy about it, but he reminds himself that it is for Sansa, and he will not do anything that might upset her on her day.

As if summoned by his thoughts, she finally appears, escorted by one of her ladies. She is radiant in her gown, which Jon is sure she has sewn herself, and he ignores the tears pricking fiercely at his eye as he takes her arm. He will not be the first one to cry today.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon asks gruffly, only half-joking. “You can still change your mind. I’ll get you a horse from the stable and you can ride away, while I clear everyone out of here. No questions asked.”

Sansa snorts in a very unqueenlike manner, but he can see the fondness in her eyes. “That’s a lovely offer, thank you very much, Jon. I think I shall go ahead and get married, though.”

“Alright, then,” Jon says. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

She pinches his arm, smirking as he winces. “Let’s go.” As they walk towards the Godswood, her face softens. “Thank you, Jon. I mean it.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“For walking me down the aisle,” Sansa says. “I knew I would never be able to have father escort me like I always wanted, but this – this feels right.”

Jon squeezes her arm as he hears her voice tremble. “Sansa, it’s the least I could do. Now, don’t you dare cry, not yet. Are you ready?”

She lets out a small laugh, sniffing, before lifting her chin proudly, looking more like a queen than Jon thinks he has ever seen. “I’m ready.”

***

Gendry hasn’t spent much time in the Godswood of Winterfell before. Not in any Godswood, really. The one in Storm's End had been burned years ago by Stannis Baratheon - his uncle, he supposes, although it's weird to think of it that way. There is something beautiful about it, especially at nighttime, with the heart tree glowing white and its leaves burning red, the dark sky above them littered with stars that are barely visible through the thick tangle of branches. Arya presses herself into his side, frowning, and he knows that she is feeling the chill of the night air just as he is. She looks beautiful, her hair falling down her back in a loose braid for once instead of tied tightly at the back of her head, but he knows that her new tunic and breeches, no matter how elegantly crafted, are made for formalities and not to stand alone against the cold.

She grumbles as she pulls at his cloak, wrapping it around her own small shoulders as well. “You know you could have worn your own cloak, if you weren’t so stubborn about being a Northerner who doesn't feel the cold,” Gendry says in amusement.

“Shut up,” Arya says, burrowing herself further into him. “Where are Sansa and Jon? They’re taking forever.”

As if in response, Gendry hears a small gasp from the guests behind them, who are closer to the entrance of the Godswood, and he knows that the bride has arrived. He can’t see her, not yet, but he looks to where Podrick is waiting at the heart tree, with one of the Northern Lords – Gendry can’t remember the man’s name right now, but he will be officiating the wedding. Podrick’s eyes widen, filling with joy, and then tears. Gendry almost laughs at the sight, but Arya digs an elbow into his ribs, and he stops himself.

When Sansa does appear, escorted by Jon, she is dazzling, and Gendry is overcome with the strange feeling that he should be kneeling, or bowing at the very least, in her presence. With her pale gown and flaming red hair, Gendry thinks that she looks like a beautiful weirwood tree come to life.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” the Northern Lord says, his voice echoing – Cerwyn, is that his name? But before Gendry can ponder further, he is distracted as Arya slips her small, strong hand into his own. When he looks down at her, she has tipped her head up at him, staring at him fiercely. Her grey eyes are captivating, and he hardly hears Jon’s response, or Sansa’s, or Podrick’s. All he can see is Arya, looking at him with want, love, and something else that he can’t quite identify.

***

The Northern wedding ceremonies are far shorter than the weddings performed in the Faith of the Seven, and Sansa is grateful for this. She doesn’t want to wait, she has waited long enough already. She has been unable to tear her gaze away from Podrick’s adoring brown eyes since she approached him at the heart tree. She says her vows without thinking, having practiced them for days, barely able to feel Jon’s arm wrapped around her own.

When it is time to cloak her, Podrick easily shakes out a thick, grey cloak, embroidered with the direwolf sigil. He had insisted upon it weeks ago, telling her that he was a Payne in name only, while she would always be a Stark through and through, and it would not be fair to cloak her in a Southern house that she would never be a part of. So he cloaks her in her own family name, and she loves him for it.

He pulls her to him gently when they kiss, his hands soft on her waist. The kiss is brief, briefer than any they have ever shared, but they pour all the love they can into it, and her heart swells with joy even as he pulls back.

Sansa knows they are surrounded by people, her siblings, her lords, and all their people. Yet all she can see is Podrick in front of her. Her husband.

***

The feast has hardly begun, and Meera Reed already wishes she could escape from it. She had nearly decided to not attend the wedding when she had first received her invitation – the crannogmen and women are not ones for crowds and ceremony. But this was an invitation from her Queen, and she knew that she could not ignore it. She had arrived only this afternoon, wanting to spend as little time here as possible, and she would leave by dawn the next day.

She can see him, Bran, King Brandon now, sitting at the high table with his family and lords. He looks older, his hair longer, his clothes regal, but his face is the same. Meera tries not to get upset at the sight of him, but it is hard, the memory of their unpleasant last farewell still burned in her mind. As if he knows she is thinking of him – he probably truly does – he turns his head, meeting her eye across the room.

His gaze is steady and penetrating as always, but Meera thinks she may see some glint, some flicker of emotion in his eyes. She looks away, shaking her head, concentrating on the plate of rich food that sits in front of her. It is useless to dwell on the memories, to still harbor all her hurt at his ungratefulness for their sacrifices. She takes a sip of her wine.

Minutes later, somebody clears their throat at her shoulder, and she turns to see him sitting there in his wheelchair. Behind him, the old man who had pushed him over speaks. “His Grace would like to walk with you.”

Meera almost scoffs, sure that those words are not what Bran had said – he cannot walk, she will be pushing him – but she nods and stands up.

Bran doesn’t speak until they are out of the Great Hall, his voice even. “It is good to see you, Meera.”

She remembers what he had said, that he is not Bran anymore, that he is the Three-Eyed Raven, and her response is cold. “I suppose that you knew I would be here before I did.”

She cannot see his face as she walks behind his chair, but he nods slightly. He is silent for a long moment before he speaks again. “I have found a balance.”

“A balance?” She wrinkles her nose in confusion.

“Yes. Between the Three-Eyed Raven and myself.” Meera stops walking when he says this, letting go of his wheelchair and walking around to face him.

“Yourself? You mean Bran?”

Bran nods at her once more, and she sees it again, clearly now, that little glint of him in his eyes. She feels as though her heart is being tugged at, all of her pain at being abandoned by him washing away. “That’s good to hear,” she manages. “Really good.”

When Meera goes in to hug him, forgetting that he is a king now – he will never feel like a king to her – he wraps his arms around her in return. She finds a small alcove for them to sit in, to talk. She has many things to say to him and wants to hear all he has to say in return. He is not the boy Bran that she once knew, that she traveled with for years, but he is also not the distant man who she had once shared a broken goodbye with, and for that she is thrilled.

***

Ser Davos is not sure how he has found himself sitting at the high table in the Great Hall of Winterfell with the Northern lords and ladies, but he is grateful for the separation from the feast that is raging below. He had left his King Bran with that slight, dark-haired girl, before returning to the table to eat. As he eats, he watches several men pouring ale down their throats at a pace that he could never have matched, even at his prime, and decides that he shall go to bed before the event grows far too raucous.

He hears a squeal from the side of the room, and looks to see Jon, surrounded by three children that are dressed in Northern clothes but have a wild look about them that insists that they did not grow up anywhere near a castle. As he watches, one of them climbs onto Jon’s shoulders, and another onto his lap, while the third tugs at his arm. Jon looks overwhelmed, and Ser Davos finds himself making his way over to help the poor man.

Jon’s face lights up when he sees him – he had had the same reaction days earlier when Davos had first arrived. “Come to save me?” Jon grunts as he grabs the boy on his shoulders to stop him from slipping.

“Something like that,” Davos says. At the sound of his voice, the three little heads snap to look at him curiously, before scrambling off Jon and to their feet. “These yours?”

“Something like that,” Jon says amusedly. “Blane, Elissa, Addam.” He gestures to each in turn and the little ones are suddenly timid, all the ferocity with which they had been attacking Jon gone as they shuffle their feet in front of Ser Davos.

“No need to be shy,” Davos says, taking a seat. “I’m not a lord.”

The girl, Elissa, brightens at that. “How do you know Jon?”

“Oh, I’ve known him for years,” Davos begins, stretching his arms. “I served him back when he was the King in the North.”

There is a collective gasp from the children and they scramble to find a seat around him, eyes wide as Jon chuckles. “Tell us about that! He never does!” Blane demands, and the younger boy, Addam, nods furiously in agreement.

Davos looks at Jon questioningly, asking for permission to share the stories, and Jon nods in defeat, smiling. The children are rapt as Davos tells of the time when Jon had worn the Northern crown, of the many battles he had fought by his side. Davos has known Jon for years, seen him at his highs and lows, but when he is telling the tales of his victories, it is hard to view him as anything but a hero.

***

Arya is more than a little drunk off wine and ale as she sits next to her sister at the high table. Sansa’s cheeks are flushed prettily from the alcohol as well, and her beaming smile has not dropped from her face once since they sat down. “Where has your dear husband disappeared to?” Arya asks, and Sansa shrugs happily, her eyes darting around the hall in search.

“Oh, there, look!” Sansa suddenly blurts out, gripping her sister’s arm.

Arya follows her gaze and laughs, as she spots Podrick finally, leaning against a wall, talking to Gendry. There is something funny about seeing their men deep in conversation, and Sansa seems to think so too as she giggles along with her sister.

“What do you think they are talking about?” Sansa asks playfully.

Arya grins. “About us, I suppose.”

“I hope they aren’t thinking of forming an alliance against us,” Sansa laughs.

“Oh, they would never,” Arya says. “They know better.”

Sansa looks as though she is about to say something, but then her eyes widen slightly, and Arya looks to see Jon and Tormund approaching the two men. Arya tenses, her hand tightening around her goblet. She is about to stand up, about to make her way over to the men and stop any drunken fight that may occur, but Sansa grabs her arm and stops her. “Let them handle themselves,” Sansa says, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“You trust them?” Arya grumbles, unsure, but Sansa only nods in response, not loosening her grip, and Arya slumps back in her chair.

Sure enough, Tormund throws his arm around Gendry – Arya suddenly remembers Gendry telling her of how he had fought back to back with the redheaded man for hours at the Battle of Winterfell – and Jon is laughing at something Podrick has said, and Arya can relax.

“I told you Jon would get over it,” Sansa says.

“Oh, he had to,” Arya smirks. “He would have had to deal with us if he didn’t.”

***

Old Lady Glover knows now that she has had too much to drink this night, as these ghosts she sees dancing in front of her can surely be nothing but a figment of an alcohol-soaked imagination. She rubs at her eyes, but when she opens them once more the ghosts are still there. She squints as she stares at them.

They are twirling clumsily across the floor, the strong, dark Baratheon man and the smaller young Stark woman. She had seen them several times before, when Robert would visit Winterfell as often as he could, but it hadn’t been for years and years. They are dead now, she knows they are, Lyanna first and then Robert years later, yet this couple is brimming with life as they laugh loudly.

She watches as the woman steps pointedly on the man’s foot, her dark braid swinging – yes, that is the Lyanna she remembers – and even as the man winces the smile is not wiped from his face – the Robert she remembers would not have taken that so lightly, but look at him, that is surely Robert, who else could it be? This is impossible, and yet there they are in front of her. She cannot explain it, can only watch as the ghosts in front of her dance freely, clouded in a haze of youthful happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to make it clear whose POV was whose, so hopefully it didn't get too confusing! :) hope ya liked


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooof it's been a while, sorry :/ i changed the title to a lyric from "wish that you were here" by florence + the machine (look it up, it's a beautiful song that reminds me so much of arya and gendry)
> 
> hope ya enjoy! :)

Arya has not visited the crypts of Winterfell since before the battle that had claimed its occupants. She remembers Sansa recounting the tale to her, shivering as she described how the skeletons of past generations of Starks had clawed their way out of their tombs, falling upon the women and children with horrifying shrieks. Sansa had used the dagger Arya had given her, she remembers with a dark pride, and the casualties had not been too grievous. But the thought of her dead kin coming back to life to assault the innocent is still one that makes her shudder, even though she had not born witness. As she descends the stairs now, she clutches her torch tightly, trying to sap warmth from the fire, to banish the chill that is setting into her bones.

The first tombs she comes upon are the most recent, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she walks past, not ready yet to gaze upon them. She stops at the next tombs, those of her grandfather Rickard, and his children Brandon and Lyanna. It is strange to look at the statue of Lord Rickard – he is not depicted as much older than her father had been when he was killed, but it is as if she has been given a glimpse into a future that was never to happen, a future in which her father had been able to grow old and nobly grizzled with his family.

Next to him stands Brandon, carved tall and handsome in stone. He had been betrothed to her mother, and Arya vaguely wonders of the path her life might have taken had Brandon been her father, had he not been so brutally executed at King’s Landing. But, no, that is not something she should dwell on. She grips her torch.

Lyanna is next. Her statue, like Rickard’s and Brandon’s, is just as Arya had remembered it from her childhood, when she and her siblings would sneak down into the crypts to play. Lyanna is as beautiful as she had always been described, and Arya smiles ruefully as she remembers how her father had told her that she was the very image of her aunt. Arya had always waved that off – Lyanna was a beauty, and Arya was decidedly not – but she supposes that now she may be able to see some resemblance. Arya is older now, far older, than Lyanna had been when she died. It does not seem fair, that she had lost her life so young – she had hardly been a woman. It is hard to reconcile the reality of this statue of a girl with the fierce woman Arya had always conjured in her head as a child when listening to stories of Lyanna.

Those are the last of the statues that she remembers from childhood, the statues that still hold some warmth and nostalgia, despite the dull grief that they carry. She is terrified to look to her right, to see the visages of her family, cold and still, staring back at her with empty stone eyes.

Arya has visited her father’s statue before. She is struck as she always is by how little it looks like him. The face is too wide, the eyes set too deep, the shoulders too broad. But there is a familiarity in the stern set of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth, a familiarity that reaches out and clenches her heart. The memory of the day she lost him invades her mind with a stinging clarity and she forces herself to turn away.

This is the first time she has seen the statue of her mother, though. When the war had ended, Sansa had ordered statues of the rest of their family made for the crypts. She must have overseen the process like a hawk, Arya thinks, as the stone woman in front of her looks even more like Catelyn Stark than the image Arya has in her head. This is how the rest of the world must have seen her, tall and beautiful and regal, the warm smile that she reserved for her children tucked away behind the mask of a lady. Arya reaches a hand out, brushing her fingers against her mother’s arm, wanting nothing more than to feel her embrace one last time.

“You probably wouldn’t believe it,” Arya hears herself whisper. “But I’ve grown quite proficient at being a lady. Not the kind of lady that you were, not by far, but…” She trails off, blinking furiously as tears begin to well in her eyes.

Robb looks fiercely noble, standing with his iron crown resting on his head, and Grey Wind wrapped around his feet. Arya had never seen her brother when he was a king, had not seen his hair grow long, his shoulders broad, or his face bearded. The boy she had known had been left behind when he was crowned. She remembers the stories they had told of him, the Young Wolf, riding his direwolf into battle. This man, carved from stone, looks as though he truly could fulfill these fantastical tales. Robb had died for the North. He would be fearsome proud, Arya knows, to learn that Sansa had finished the quest for independence that he had given his life for.

The sight of Rickon’s statue pulls the first tear from her eyes. It traces a path down her cheek, soon followed by its many brethren, transforming her face into a tangle of small, salty streams. She had only known Rickon as a child, barely more than a babe, but here he is a front of her, a young man. He is lean and wiry and wild, one half of the whole chaotic spirit that he had shared with Shaggydog. The direwolf rests at the statue’s feet. The boy and his wolf.

Arya stumbles backwards into a wall, a searing pain ripping through her chest as she looks over the statues of her family, the ghosts of the people that death had torn away from her. She rubs at her leaking eyes with her free hand, sliding down the wall until she rests on the cold floor. Her pack had survived, House Stark had survived, but at the cost of far too many wolves. It is not fair. They should still be here. It does not matter how many years pass, it does not matter that she has come as close to reconciliation as she possibly can, these wounds will always be sore.

Her eyes are closed when he approaches, but she does not to see to know it is him. She could pick the sound of his footsteps out of a stampede.

“Arya,” he says softly. “It’s me.”

“I know.” She doesn’t open her eyes yet. “Do you think I would have let you get so close if I didn’t know it was you?”

“I guess not.” She feels his hand on hers, feels him gently unwrap her fingers from the torch she has been gripping. He places it in a nearby sconce, before easing down to rest next to her on the floor. Gendry is quiet, waiting for her to speak, pressing his shoulder alongside hers.

“I used to sneak down here to play with my brothers all the time,” Arya says finally. “Sansa would hardly ever come with us. We would run down here, hide from each other, wrestle with each other. It didn’t occur to us that we were playing in a graveyard.”

“You were children,” he says carefully.

“Yes. And all the Starks down here, even Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna, they were just stories to us. We had never known them when they were alive, had never seen them as anything other than their statues.” Arya gazes at her family, hewn from stone. “But now…now they’re all here. This isn’t how I want to remember them, cold and distant. I can still see them in my memory, I can still see father laughing as I chase after Rickon, I can hear mother scolding Robb for letting us play so wildly. Then I come back here, and I see them like this, and it all comes crashing down, the reminder than they’re gone, they’re really gone. And I can’t do anything about it.”

Gendry doesn’t respond as he takes her hand, squeezing it firmly. She draws comfort from his touch, from his warm, steady presence.

“I’m sorry,” Arya says, realizing suddenly how he may interpret her words. “I still have so much family left, and here I am, crying to you about the ones I have lost.”

“No,” he interrupts her. “No, don’t do that, ever. I lost my mother when I was a boy, yes, but I didn’t know any of the rest of my family. Except for my uncle who tried to sacrifice me, but I can’t say I wept for him. Don’t minimize your feelings to me, Arya. You are allowed to mourn.”

She nods, tilting her head to rest it against his shoulder. He is right, of course.

“I still have family left too, you know,” he says, his thumb stroking soft circles on the back of her hand. “I have you.”

“Yes, you do. And I have you.” She can’t stop the small smile that breaks across her face. They sit in silence for a moment, the torch above their heads flickering with pale orange light, casting long shadows down the hallway of the crypt.

“Your brother sent me down to find you,” Gendry says. “King Bran, that is. He is planning to leave Winterfell in two days’ time, and has extended the offer to travel together again.”

“Two days? For somebody who claims to be all-knowing, he certainly does like to do things on the shortest notice,” Arya grumbles.

Gendry lets out a small laugh. “I think he enjoys it. We – we can stay longer if you wish…” He hesitates. “But I think it would be best for me to return to Storm’s End soon, though.”

He doesn’t want to force her to leave, Arya realizes, but he is a lord and he has duties. Winterfell is her old home, still brimming with a sense of familiarity and comfort. Perhaps a small part of her, a childlike, innocent part would wish to stay in the North longer. But all of the Northern lords had departed the castle days ago, and Bran will leave soon, and then Jon. “No, we will leave with Bran,” Arya decides. “It is time for us to return.” Storm’s End is her new home, and she finds herself missing the castle courtyard where she trains the children in swordplay and archery, the tall ramparts where she can feel the sea breeze as she looks out over the water. They will be home soon.

***

The moonlight is filtering through the window, illuminating Gendry’s face as he sleeps. He is snoring lightly, his bare chest rising and falling, his dark brow relaxed for once. Arya props herself up on one elbow, her finger lightly tracing along his jaw. She is restless. She is ready.

“Gendry, wake up,” she whispers in his ear, poking and pinching at his arm until his eyes flutter open, his mouth frowning in confusion.

“What is it?” he mumbles, his voice rough from sleep. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Just get up.” She slips out of the bed.

“Arya, it’s the middle of the night,” he protests, but he sits up anyway, the fog of sleepiness slowly disappearing from his eyes as he rubs at them.

“I know that.” Arya pulls her cloak around her shoulders. She is only wearing her nightclothes, a thin shift, but she should be warm enough with this cloak. “Hurry up, now.”

Gendry is looking at her incredulously, still in bed. “Not unless you tell me what is going on. Where are we going?”

“Gendry, please,” she complains, sifting through his trunk until she finds a simple tunic and breeches for him to wear. She brings the clothes over to him, along with his own cloak. “Just trust me. Put these on.”

He is eyeing her suspiciously, his hair rumpled from sleep, but he takes the clothes and gets out of the bed with a grumble. When he is dressed, she leads him through the hallways, out of the tower, across the courtyard. He draws in a sharp breath as he realizes she is leading him towards the Godswood. “Arya, wait.” He pulls her arm, forcing her to halt and face him. “Please don’t feel like you are being forced into doing this.”

“Forced?” Arya laughs lightly. “As if anyone could force me. Gendry, I’m choosing this. Now.”

“Your family isn’t here,” he stutters, eyes wide. “Surely you want them present.”

“The only people I want present are you and me.” Arya begins walking again, tugging Gendry along as they enter into the Godswood.

“There needs to be at least one other witness, though,” he protests weakly.

“Why?” Arya’s voice is firm. She can see the red of the heart tree leaves in the distance. “We are both fully capable of bearing witness ourselves.”

Gendry falls silent, defeated, his grip on her hand so tight it is almost painful as they reach the heart tree. And there, sitting at the base, is Bran, bundled in a thick fur, his wheelchair dwarfed by the huge trunk.

“What are you doing here, Bran?” Arya manages, her feet frozen in shock. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Bran only cocks his head slightly, staring at them. Of course he had known they would be here tonight.

“Waiting for us, I assume,” Gendry laughs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “He must have known we needed a witness.”

Arya glares at him before turning to her brother. “How did you even get out here? Are your guards mad?”

“I’m a king, Arya. I don’t find that many of my guards have it in them to question my orders.” His expression is unreadable.

“How long have you been waiting here?”

“Long enough.” There is a ghost of a smile on his face now, smug enough to be infuriating.

Arya groans. This was not her plan. “Well, if you’ve had all the time you need here, I hope you don’t mind if I request the privacy of the Godswood for a few minutes. I’d like to get married, you see.”

Gendry chokes behind her, clearly caught off guard by hearing the words spoken out loud. “Arya,” he hisses. “We are in our nightclothes, it’s the middle of the night, and the only other person here is the king. This is hardly the setting for a wedding.”

Arya sets her jaw stubbornly. “Do you want to marry me, Gendry?”

He nods, unsure. “Of course I do.”

“And I want to marry you. Tonight. I don’t want a proper wedding.” She steps towards him and takes his hands in her own. His gaze softens at her touch. “I just want you.”

Gendry lets out a long breath, a faint smile pulling across his cheeks. “Alright.” His eyes bore into hers, full and blue.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Bran’s voice cuts impatiently through the chill of the night air, breaking her away from Gendry. Her brother is still resting at the foot of the tree, his hands folded in his lap, his face impassive as he waits for a response.

“Oh,” Arya says, stepping forward as she tries desperately to recall Sansa’s wedding, and what words had been said next. It had been Jon, she thinks, who had spoken, but he is not here now. She can identify herself. “Arya, of the House Stark. Here to be wed. I…” She can’t remember.

“Come to beg the blessing of the Gods,” Bran finishes for her. “Who comes to claim her?”

“Claim?” Gendry says, his brow furrowing. “I’m not _claiming_ her, I—”

“Gendry,” Arya says softly, not nearly as annoyed as she is pleased at his aversion to the archaic words. “It’s just part of the ceremony.”

He gives her a long look before nodding. “Right. Gendry, of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.”

“Who gives her?” Bran prompts when neither of them speaks next.

“Nobody,” Arya says. She has brought herself here, she is not being given by somebody else. “I am giving myself away, freely.”

Bran does not seem to mind the deviation as he continues. “Lady Arya, will you take this man?”

Arya looks at Gendry. He is standing beside her, tall and handsome, even as he wears only nightclothes. He is a grown man now, but when he meets her eyes, his gaze warm, she can see the boy she had met so long ago, the boy who had been the only person she trusted, who had saved her life, and she his, countless times. The boy who had been her only comfort, the boy who she had been sure she would follow to the end of the world. The man he is now, the man who is her family and her home. She had loved him back then, as she does now. “I take this man,” she says, but she knows that she had already taken him for her own years ago.

“Join hands and kneel now,” Bran says. “So we may take a moment to pray.”

Arya grabs Gendry’s hand, a motion that has become so familiar to her, and uses her other to lift her night shift as she kneels. Her bare knees hit the ground, and she knows they will be muddy later. She does not mind.

She is not one for prayer, the Gods have never seemed to listen to her. She waits in silence instead, wondering if Bran is praying, or Gendry. Somehow, she doesn’t think either of them are. Even so, the Godswood is hauntingly quiet. She can hear the sound of the leaves above them rustling in the slight breeze, the chirp of some small nocturnal bug, Gendry’s steady breathing next to her.

“Is that long enough?” Gendry finally ventures, getting to his feet even before hearing the response.

Bran sighs. “Yes. The cloak?”

She feels as though she is a child, being blindly guided through the steps of this unknown ceremony, but she fumbles at the ties of her cloak anyway, pulling it from her shoulders. She is left shivering in only her nightclothes. Gendry has taken off his own cloak as well, a finely woven shroud of Baratheon black and gold, but he hesitates. “I know you said you would keep the Stark name. We don’t have to—”

She shakes her head at his protest, tugging the fabric of his cloak closer to her until he concedes and wraps it around her shoulders. It is almost comically large on her, swallowing her body, pooling on the ground, but at least it blocks the night chill. “Is that it?” she asks Bran.

He nods, his eyes dancing with amusement. “As the King of the Six Kingdoms, I can assure you that you are properly married now.”

“Oh, good,” Gendry says. “I’ve been waiting far too long to kiss my wife.” He pulls Arya to him easily, his hands slipping underneath the cloak and around her waist as he presses his lips to hers. She surges forward on her toes to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck. His kiss is deep and fierce tonight, as though he is trying to make her a part of him, as though he is trying to join them even further. She hopes Bran will avert his eyes, just this once.

***

“Travel safely,” Sansa says, her arms tight around her sister. “Send a raven when you arrive home.”

Arya nods against Sansa’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself here. Don’t overexert yourself.”

Sansa is rolling her eyes as she pulls back, but she smiles. By the time Jon pulls Arya in for a hug, Podrick’s arm is already back around Sansa’s waist – they are sickeningly affectionate these days, especially so now that he is aware she is with child.

Jon squeezes her tightly. She tries not to tear up, but it is hard when she doesn’t know when she will see him next. It could be years. “Be safe,” he says gruffly into her hair. “And remind him, if he ever treats you badly—”

“I know, Jon.” Arya laughs as they step apart. “Shall I remind Tormund to treat you right, as well?”

Her brother’s face splits into a rare grin at this. “Alright, alright, I get it.”

Arya squeezes his gloved hand one last time before she mounts her horse. Gendry and Ser Davos are waiting, already ahorse, a few feet away, and Bran is tucked into his carriage, ready for a long day of travel. She looks back at her siblings, Sansa, tall and graceful, with her crown on her head, Jon standing proudly in the garb of the Freefolk, and knows that at least she is leaving them well.

“I’ll miss you,” Arya says, her heart thumping. She has to tell them before she leaves, there is no way around it. “But I’m sure my husband and I will visit many more times.”

Gendry lets out a strangled noise behind her, and she hears Davos muttering urgently to him. “Your husband?” Sansa says, her blue eyes blazing angrily. “I was not aware that you were married.”

Jon is frowning next to her. “Explain.”

“Bran married us two nights ago,” Arya says, squeezing her reins tightly. She could pull on them right now and ride away from Winterfell if she wanted to, ride away from this line of questioning. But she forces herself to stay calm.

“Just Bran?” Sansa says, stepping forward. Podrick’s hand falls from her waist, and he looks at Arya worriedly, aware of how furious Sansa is. “You didn’t think to alert the rest of your family to this rather important development? You didn’t think that we might like to be present?”

“I’m sorry,” Arya blurts, knowing that those words will calm her sister, if only slightly. “It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

“But it was planned enough for Bran to be there,” Sansa says.

“Not at all!” Arya scoffs. “Bran showed up on his own. I think he knew before I did.”

It is quiet for a moment, until Jon laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable, Arya.” Gendry has urged his horse forward slightly until he stands next to Arya, and Jon looks at the two of them, smiling. “I owe you a congratulations, then, I suppose.”

Sansa’s glare has barely weakened, though. “I had hoped to plan your wedding. I was going to sew your dress myself.”

“And I couldn’t let you do that,” Arya says, letting out a deep breath of relief when Sansa finally smiles at her.

“I suppose not,” her sister concedes. “But I wish you had told me.” Sansa looks at Gendry, who almost seems to retreat at her fierce gaze.

“It was a surprise to me as well, Your Grace,” Gendry manages. Arya glares at him.

“Yes, it must have been,” Sansa says, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Very well, then. I shall wish you good luck, my lord.”

Gendry chuckles. “Thank you.”

“That’s enough from you two,” Arya grumbles. “Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

Their party departs Winterfell in a long column, and Arya finds herself racing to the front with Gendry as they always do. As they ride, side-by-side, the wind threads its fingers through her hair – she has left it loose down her back today, how Gendry likes it best. She looks over at him, leaning forward in his saddle with his face contorted in concentration, and for a moment it is just the two of them on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope i did them justice :)


End file.
